Chapter Twenty-six

A job well done.

That depends entirely on whether he's still breathing.

No updates yet. I'll let you know as soon as I hear.

How did you manage it, anyway?

What did I tell you about asking questions?

It's already done. There's no harm in telling me.

I lost loyal followers to this, and I've taken enough of a risk without giving you something else to hold over me.

What happened to mutually assured destruction?

Forgive me for thinking you'd ever pay the price.

Send me an update as soon as you hear. I need to plan our next move.

I've already moved forward with the photo. It should hit the news cycle any moment now. Was she one of them?

Yes. Not an easy loss.

It'll all be worth it. For both of us.

—Text message exchange between two prepaid mobile numbers, 13 January 2024

WHILE THERE ARE MORE THAN two dozen people crammed around the long conference table, no one says a word as Maisie takes a menacing step toward Ben, her fists clenched like she actually knows how to use them.

"Did you hit your head?" she says nastily. "Or have you conveniently forgotten what His Majesty told you before we left for Klosters?"

Ben leans back in his chair and surveys her with the arrogance of someone who thinks he's untouchable. "I believe the word ‘banished' may have been batted around once or twice," he says. "By all means, if Uncle Alexander feels the need to remind me, he's more than welcome to do so."

"That is enough," says Constance sharply from the seat across from him, while Maisie looks like she's about to burst into flames. The Queen Mother sits beside an expressionless Helene, who, to her credit, seems like she's only barely managed to pull herself together for this meeting, with her hair limp, the cords of her neck strained, and the circles beneath her eyes so dark they're purple.

Ben's smirk is unmistakable now as he looks at us one by one, and while it may be my imagination, I swear his searing gaze lingers on me for a beat longer than the others. "I can't be the only one who's actually read the Regency Act of 2005," he says. "That is why we're all here, is it not?"

I barely have time to wonder how he knows that before Maisie speaks up again. "It has nothing to do with you, Benedict—"

"I think you'll find that it does," he says. "I don't have the exact wording in front of me, so forgive me if I'm paraphrasing, but I do believe it states that should the heir to the throne be eighteen at the time of ascension or regency, then the four most senior members of the royal family shall gather to advise her, and to rule by council until she turns twenty-one. Am I wrong?"

Maisie slowly turns a shade of red I've never actually seen on a human face before. "It doesn't mean you."

"As I said before, dear cousin, I think you'll find that it does," says Ben, and there's a hint of victory in his voice that makes me want to wring his neck.

My sister narrows her eyes. "Then I suppose we'll just have to remove you, won't we?" she says. "It should be a simple vote. Four to one, I think—"

"You aren't Queen yet, Your Royal Highness," says Ben. "And even if Uncle Alexander dies today, I believe you'll find that you won't have the power to get rid of me for another two and a half years. The act is ironclad. Uncle Alexander's rather clever that way, isn't he? Or…wasn't he?" He drums his fingers against the mahogany table. "I'm afraid I've been remiss in asking how our beloved King is doing. Or not doing, so to speak."

It's only Kit's tightening grip on my elbow that stops me from launching myself at Ben, and Maisie actually takes a step toward him. But whether it's the dozens of curious eyes on her, or the very real possibility that Ben does in fact know what he's talking about, she stops herself from getting too close and instead turns to Helene.

"Mummy," she demands, "he can't be here. He can't be part of this."

Helene exchanges a look with Nicholas, who's leaning slightly away from his son. "I'm afraid Benedict is correct," she says, her honeyed voice brittle. "Alexander was…very specific about the requirements in the event of his incapacitation, and unfortunately we're all bound to them. Any change would require an act of Parliament, which would surely take time, and it would, I fear, also require an explanation. A public explanation."

Ben pushes a lock of hair out of his eyes, practically basking in the glory of his win. "Would you like to be the one to explain to Parliament and the entire world why you don't want me here, Maisie? Or would you prefer I elaborate for you?"

For a split second, she tenses in a way that makes it seem like she really is about to knock him upside the head. But Jenkins clears his throat, and he pointedly positions himself between them, heading off the fight that Ben is so gleefully stoking.

"If I may, Your Royal Highness," he says to Maisie. She nods stiffly, still glaring at Ben with the heat of a thousand suns, and Jenkins turns toward him. "Your recollection of the Regency Act of 2005 is mostly correct, Your Royal Highness. But I fear there is one point in particular that you have misinterpreted."

Ben goes very still. "Is that so?" he says, an edge to his voice.

"Indeed," says Jenkins. "The act asks that the four blood relatives closest to His Majesty and the heir to the throne, including the Counsellors of State, step up to advise Her Royal Highness. It never specifies that they must be designated senior royals—or even royalty at all."

In an instant, all eyes are on me, and with sharp horror, I realize why I'm here. "Wait," I say suddenly. "Wait—"

"Is this a joke?" says Ben, leaning forward in his chair so quickly that he nearly leaps out of it. "Evangeline isn't any older than Maisie—"

"She meets the age requirement of eighteen," says Jenkins mildly. "And forgive me, Your Royal Highness, but you yourself are only nineteen."

Ben sputters. "But—she's American. That alone invalidates her eligibility—"

A peal of laughter escapes from Maisie, so unexpected that even Ben looks taken aback. "Evan has a British passport," she manages. "And I'm fairly certain that as far as close relatives go, daughter trumps estranged nephew by a bloody mile."

I'm still reeling, trying to absorb what no one has actually said out loud, but Ben stands rigidly, fixing his glare on me. "A matter of interpretation," he says, like this is somehow my fault. "And I'm certain the palace lawyers will see it my way."

Jenkins clears his throat again. "I fear it is not a matter of interpretation," he says. "I helped His Majesty draft the clause in question, and he was exceptionally clear about his intention. He worded it in such a way to specifically ensure that Her Royal Highness would have the support of the three Counsellors of State—Her Majesty the Queen, Her Majesty the Queen Mother, and His Royal Highness the Duke of York—and her only sibling, Evangeline Bright, once they both turned eighteen. There was, in fact, no discussion regarding your involvement in any potential regency. Sir."

Jenkins says this last word with just a hint of bite, though his posture is straight and his expression unmoving. And I'm absolutely sure that even if Ben enlists half the lawyers in the UK to fight him on this, Jenkins will stand his ground until the bitter end.

Someone knocks on the doorjamb, and Kit and I turn to find two members of the palace security team standing directly behind us. They don't say a word, but they don't have to, and when I look at Ben again, he's turned an unhealthy shade of puce.

"I see," says Ben through his clenched jaw, and yet again, he eyes us one by one until his stare falls on me. There's a new layer to his hatred now—a malevolence so intense that it chills me to the bone. "Then I suppose that settles it. Though I wouldn't be terribly surprised if the public were…less than enthusiastic about Evangeline playing a role in this, all things considered."

He lets this hang in the air like it's an invitation, but I know better than to give him that kind of opening. And no one else, not even my viciously smug sister, takes it. After a beat, his smirk returns, and he smooths the front of his jacket.

"I'll see you all rather soon, I suspect," he says, as if he's the victor in this battle. And maybe, in his own mind, he is. "Father. Grandmother. Aunt Helene. Good luck."

He slides past Maisie without a second glance, but Jenkins, I notice, has to step aside to avoid being directly in his path. And when Ben reaches the door, he pauses as he peers down at me, and the air between us is so charged that a single spark could set it on fire.

"Rest assured, Evangeline, that this is only the beginning," he says with eerie calm. And just when I think he's about to keep going, he leans down so close that his lips brush against my ear. "It was meant to be you."

I suck in a breath, stunned. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I say raggedly, but as he tilts his head, the picture of innocence, I already know the answer.

I was the one who was supposed to die under a mountain of rubble. Not Alexander, not Ingrid, not the seven other victims—that bomb was meant for me.

Kit steps forward, danger radiating from him. "I believe Her Royal Highness has made it clear that you are no longer welcome here," he says with inhuman calm, and Ben chuckles.

"My condolences on your most recent failure, Lord Clarence," he says. "Perhaps you'll finally get the job done next time."

And with an enormous wink at Kit, he finally passes through the doorway, waving aside the officers as he strides down the hall and out of sight.

The room is deadly silent. Rattled, I try to catch Kit's eye, but his gaze is focused on the empty doorway, and his lips are parted, almost like he's seen a ghost.

"What is he talking about?" I whisper, but Kit shakes his head and slides a protective arm around my shoulders.

"You should sit," he says, and before I can protest, he leads me around the table to the now-empty chair beside Nicholas. I hesitate, ready to insist that I'm perfectly fine standing, but once again, all eyes are on me. And so I ease down into the chair, my skin crawling when I discover the leather is still warm.

I don't want to be here. I don't want anything to do with Parliament or politics or a maybe-regency for my critically injured father, but even though no one's said it out loud, it's clear now that I'm the only thing standing between Ben and a position on this royal council. And while his whispered words and their terrible implication still slither through my mind, I can't discount the likelihood that they're designed to do exactly this—to shake me so badly that I race out of there and never come back, leaving his seat vacant once more.

And so, knowing I need to tell someone but also painfully aware that now is not the time, I shove my trembling hands between my knees and make myself as small as possible. Kit remains behind me, and I take all the comfort I can from his presence, though for once, it isn't enough.

"Well, then," says Maisie as she sits at the head of the table—Alexander's spot. "Shall we get on with it?"

"How is His Majesty?" says Yara immediately, her complexion bloodless. "Is his condition really so poor as to require…this?"

"The King's injuries are grave," admits Helene, her gaze fixed on the table in front of her. "And if he does survive, there is a…significant possibility they will have a permanent impact on his quality of life. And, potentially, his ability to rule."

This is new information to me, although considering I'm one of the only people in that room who's actually seen Alexander, it shouldn't be. Shock and devastation flicker across Maisie's face, and it's only thanks to what must be a supreme act of willpower that she pulls herself together before she falls to pieces.

"When my father recovers," she says, as if challenging not only her mother, but the entire universe to prove her wrong, "we will of course dissolve this council. But until then, we will do our solemn duty to protect and uphold His Majesty's rule."

I stay silent as Jenkins situates himself in the empty spot beside me and leads the meeting from topic to topic, starting with when to release a delicately worded statement about Alexander's condition, and then moving on to how to divide his duties between the members of the royal family—which, to my relief, doesn't seem to include me. Maisie and Helene take the lion's share, but when the topic of public appearances comes up, Nicholas stands.

"There will be no public appearances until we can be certain that all participants of the attack on His Majesty have been rounded up," he insists. "We will not put other members of the family at risk."

"MI5 has already made several arrests in the case, Your Royal Highness," says a man I recognize as the head of palace security—Victor Stephens. "We're working closely with the Home Office to ensure the royal family's safety."

Nicholas nods. "Good. And when we do start to venture out into the world again, I insist that Princess Mary be accompanied by another senior royal whenever she is in public."

Maisie stares at our uncle. "Pardon me?" she says, though there's no politeness in her voice. "With all due respect, our security is the best in the world. I don't need a minder."

"You're in an exceptionally vulnerable position," says Nicholas, "and you will need support from those of us with the experience to guide you."

"And I will have it, in private," says Maisie fiercely. "I suppose you'd prefer to escort me everywhere I go?"

"Yes," says Nicholas. "After what's happened to my brother, I very much would."

She gives him a contemptuous look. "You're not superhuman, Uncle Nicholas. You're not going to single-handedly stop a building from falling on me."

"Likely not," he agrees, "but my military background gives me insight into the security of public events that the other members of this family do not have."

"And you don't think our actual security team might have a problem with you stepping in to play bodyguard?" She shakes her head. "We need to give the people a sense of stability—a sense of continuity and safety and peace, and the last thing they need is a steady stream of images of their princess being followed around like a child who can't be trusted. I know I'm young, and I know I have a lot to learn, but I will not give the country a reason to doubt me, and I will not offer the media a single bloody excuse to claim I'm incapable of upholding my duties as the future—"

Suddenly the door flies open, and a sweaty Doyle bursts into the room, clutching a tablet. Despite the sea of people now staring at him, his wild eyes immediately find me.

"Pardon me, Your Majesties, Your Royal Highnesses," he says with a quick bow to the head of the table. "I'm afraid there's a matter that needs immediate attention."

"Is there something more important going on than the attempt on His Majesty's life?" says Jenkins calmly, and Doyle reddens.

"I—" He shakes his head, seeming to think better of it. "Jenkins, you need to see this."

Doyle maneuvers past an irritable Maisie, and Kit presses against my chair to give him enough space to reach Jenkins. Breathing heavily, Doyle hands the tablet over, and as Jenkins examines the screen, he grows very, very still.

"What am I looking at?" he says in a quiet voice that doesn't carry any farther than a few feet.

"That one right there…" Doyle reaches over to swipe to a separate page, still panting like he's run a marathon. "Her identity was just released. And as you can see, she's—"

"Everyone out."

Jenkins's commanding voice echoes off the walls, louder than I've ever heard him before, and a shocked murmur ripples through the crowd. Confused, I glance up at Kit, but his eyes are fixed on the tablet, and his fingers dig so deeply into the leather of my chair that I can't even inch back enough to stand.

"You forget yourself, Jenkins," snaps Constance, while Helene looks like she's been slapped across the face.

"My apologies, Your Majesty," says Jenkins, his words unnervingly sharp as he pulls the tablet to his chest. "But I'm afraid we need to adjourn this meeting. I will be in touch with the Privy Council to make all the necessary arrangements, and in the meantime, it is my strongest recommendation that the royal family take a few hours to rest. The days ahead are bound to be difficult, and you will need your strength."

But Maisie climbs to her feet, her annoyance with Nicholas transferring seamlessly to Jenkins. "Nothing could possibly be more important than this meeting," she says hotly as she marches over. "We still have several matters to discuss, and—"

Jenkins bows his head as she approaches. "Forgive me, Your Royal Highness. Now that the royal council has been established, I fear this is currently a more pressing matter."

"What—" she says, but he shows her the tablet, swiping between what seems like two pages, and her perfectly plucked brows furrow. "Is that—"

"Yes, ma'am," he says.

"And that's one of the people who…?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She goes white, and her eyes lock on mine for an unbearably long moment before she straightens. "You heard Jenkins," she says. "Everyone out. Not you," she adds, her gaze flickering toward me once more. "And certainly not you."

This is directed toward Kit, who visibly gulps. By now, I'm practically burning with both curiosity and dread, but Jenkins and Maisie don't offer a single hint as every senior adviser except Doyle shuffles out, all looking as baffled as I feel.

"I must insist that we stay," says Constance once the room is nearly empty. Helene and Nicholas stand together at the head of the table now, but the Queen Mother hasn't budged from her seat.

"And I'm afraid I must insist that you excuse us for the time being, Grandmama," says Maisie. "I'll see you all at breakfast as soon as we're done here."

Constance opens her mouth to argue, but Nicholas sets his hand on her shoulder. "Mother, let's go," he says quietly. "Whatever this is, the sooner it's resolved, the sooner we can return to the matter at hand."

She doesn't look convinced, but after several seconds, it becomes clear that Maisie isn't going to cave, and Constance narrows her eyes. "You're every bit as insolent as your father," she says as she stands. "Do try to remember that you aren't the sovereign yet, darling."

"A fact for which I am exceptionally grateful at the moment," says Maisie hotly, glaring at Kit once more.

As soon as they've left, royal protection officers in tow, I wiggle out from between my seat and the table and finally stand. "What's going on?" I demand, facing the four of them. "Kit?"

He shakes his head, his dark eyes focused on the carpet now. "I'm sorry, Evan," he says with a desperate note in his voice. "I didn't know. I thought…" He rakes his fingers through his hair and finally looks at me, and his face is full of such naked vulnerability and fear that my insides turn to lead. "I didn't know."

"Out of all the things you two could've done," says Maisie, and to my shock, her voice catches like she's about to cry. "Are you both out of your bloody minds?"

"What are you talking about?" I say, alarmed. "What is goingon?"

At last, with the reluctance of someone about to saw off their own limb, Jenkins shows me the tablet. I don't know what to expect, but the possibilities racing through my mind are too horrible to contemplate for long—and not at all like the innocuous picture on the screen.

The red brick buildings of the town near Sandringham fill the background, and in the corner of the image, I can just make out the sign from Noble Norfolk Novelties, the ice cream-slash-gift shop Kit and I visited. I'm standing on the sidewalk with the redheaded Aoife, who hugs me like we've known each other our whole lives. Kit lingers beside us, looking nervously over his shoulder, while Aoife's boyfriend—Dylan, I think—is facing away from the camera, his knit hat hiding any trace of his features.

Bewildered, I search the photo for some hidden image—some clue as to why they're all panicking. "Those are Kit's friends from school," I say. "We ran into them when we were picking up presents for my mom. That's right after Maisie texted Kit about Ben—we were heading back, and—"

"So you do know her?" says Maisie like this is somehow a massive betrayal.

"Aoife? No, not really. This is the only time we ever met. She hugged me before I could get away, that's all. Kit—" I say, turning to him for confirmation, but his entire body is hunched over the back of my chair now, and he looks like he's about to collapse.

"Evan," says Jenkins in a measured voice. "This woman's name is Aoife Marsh. You're absolutely certain this is the only time you two have met?"

"Positive," I say, my heart thumping so hard that I can hear my pulse. "Please, just tell me what's going on. You're scaring me."

For a split second, no one replies. But at last, with a heavy sigh, Jenkins swipes to another tab, and the BBC home page appears. A single headline dominates the screen:

Terrorists Behind Bombing Identified

"The Home Office has released the names of the suspects arrested yesterday in connection to the bombing," says Jenkins. "And Aoife Marsh—the girl you're hugging in this photo—is one of them."