Chapter Twenty-eight

"Henrietta, with all that's happened in the past twenty-four hours, I scarcely know where to begin."

"It's all been rather shocking, hasn't it? But with the statement that was just released from Buckingham Palace regarding the King's condition, we're finally starting to see some answers."

"His Majesty is alive—that's certainly more than some were speculating."

"Alive, yes, but given the news that the royal family is invoking certain clauses of the Regency Act of 2005, it's clear that his injuries are extensive and potentially life-threatening."

"Can you tell us more about the Regency Act, Henrietta? And how it may affect us all in the days and weeks to come?"

"The first modern-day Regency Act was passed in 1936, after Edward VIII took the throne when his son, who later became Alexander I, was only seven years old. Parliament wanted to ensure that there was a clear path forward if Edward VIII died before his heir reached the age of eighteen, and that involved creating the position of Counsellors of State—members of the royal family over the age of twenty-one who may perform most of the sovereign's duties, should he be temporarily incapacitated or abroad. Traditionally these include the monarch's consort and the first four adults in the line of succession, though as the royal family began to slim down in recent generations, the number has fluctuated. Now the heir to the throne is included, should they be over the age of eighteen, as well as the consort of the former sovereign."

"The Queen Mother, you mean?"

"Indeed. Queen Florence, His Majesty's grandmother, was also a Counsellor of State until her retirement from public duties shortly before her death."

"And who are the Counsellors of State today?"

"Officially, the Queen, the Queen Mother, the Duke of York, and Princess Mary, now that she's eighteen, are the only four Counsellors of State. Prince Benedict, of course, is still under the age of twenty-one, and Prince Edgar, the fourth in line to the throne and second son of Alexander I, does not reside in Britain, nor do his descendants. After him come the descendants of Edward VIII's daughters, Princess Victoria and Princess Phillipa, none of whom have titles or are actively involved in royal life."

"So in this time of great need, we are short a Counsellor of State."

"Indeed. But there are several curiosities regarding the Regency Act of 2005, most important of which deals with precisely the situation we've found ourselves in now—what happens if His Majesty is incapacitated, either temporarily or permanently, before Princess Mary turns twenty-one."

"Presumably the monarchy would become a regency, yes?"

"It's possible, though a regency will only be established if His Majesty is permanently unable to perform his duties. In either case, after Princess Mary was born, the King worked with Parliament to outline a plan to ensure she would not be burdened with the full weight of the crown whilst still a teenager."

"And this is where this…royal council comes in, yes?"

"Precisely. His Majesty requested that should he be temporarily incapacitated, or should Her Royal Highness be placed in a position of regent or monarch before the age of twenty-one, she be assisted by four individuals: the Counsellors of State, and should this equal less than four, then her closest blood relatives over the age of eighteen."

"Which, until now, we all assumed was included to allow for Prince Benedict's involvement, considering he was born the year before Princess Mary."

"Yes. But it seems His Majesty has, as they say, pulled a fast one on us all. At the time the clause was drafted, he was very much aware that he had a second daughter—Evangeline Bright. And the statement from Buckingham Palace announcing the arrangement has made it clear that she was always the intended final member of the council, not Prince Benedict."

"A rather unusual choice for His Majesty to make, considering Evangeline's existence was only revealed to the public last summer."

"?‘Unusual' doesn't even begin to cover it, I'm afraid. Parliament almost certainly wouldn't have accepted the wording as it stands had they known an illegitimate half sibling would be involved, and I'd imagine that this won't help calm the inevitable chaos in the palace at the moment."

"What should we expect from this royal council, moving forward?"

"It's difficult to say, as such a council has never been established before, let alone placed in a position of authority over the monarchy. But I have no doubt that everyone involved wishes to work together toward the best interests of this country and its people, and with the experience of two queen consorts at Princess Mary's disposal, we can only hope the transition—whether temporary or permanent—is as smooth as possible, given the tragic circumstances."

"And if His Majesty, God forbid, succumbs to his injuries?"

"Should the unthinkable happen, then with the royal council's continued guidance, Princess Mary will officially ascend the throne, and the United Kingdom will have our first queen regnant since the age of Victoria."

—ITV News's interview with royal expert Henrietta Smythe, 13 January 2024

I SPEND THE REST OF the morning in a much smaller conference room with Wiggs, the gray-haired palace lawyer who represented me during the investigation into Jasper Cunningham's death, as he takes me through every excruciating detail of my meeting with Aoife Marsh.

For the most part, he's sympathetic, but he has me repeat my story more than a dozen times, in different ways and from different angles, and I start to notice that his questions are designed to trip me up and catch me in a lie. And while I know that it's his job to make sure he has as much of the truth as I do before he squares off with MI5 for me, especially with the stakes so high, by the time Suraj Singh strides into the room with a laptop tucked under his arm, my nerves are frayed and my patience is dangerously close to zero.

"Miss Bright," he says politely, but instead of sitting down, he opens the laptop so I have a clear view of the blank screen. His suit is identical to the one he wore in the hospital the night before, and even though it looks clean and pressed, part of me wonders if he hasn't gone home.

"What's this about?" says Wiggs gruffly, eyeing the laptop. Singh taps a key, and the image of a human silhouette appears, its identifying features in shadow.

"This video was posted by the Army of the British Republic less than twenty minutes ago," says Singh as he sets the computer down on the table, and before Wiggs can ask any more questions, he hits Play.

"—rocked the entire world with our message, and we're only getting started," says a pitched voice as the silhouette shifts. "We have shown our so-called rulers that they are not and will never be our betters, and that they sit on their thrones because we the people allow it. Because we the people tolerate their existence, not because they have any true power, and the time has come for us to refuse to stand by and endure the shame of their lechery and depravity in the name of our great country."

A chill runs through me at the sheer loathing in those words, but even though there's nothing really happening on-screen, I can't tear my eyes away.

"For now, we must live in the shadows, loyal soldiers dedicated to a single cause. We rejoice in our suffering because we know it will lead to a future where the people will no longer have to live with the corruption, the theft, the evil with which our kings and queens built their empires, and we know that we alone have the will to stop them.

"But not all of us have remained hidden," continues the voice, and the silhouette seems to lean closer to the camera. "We are proud of those who have risked their lives for our cause, and prouder still of those who have risked their legacies. To have their names among ours, to know that even those who live in the nest of snakes can see the cruelty and immorality of their existence—this is what sparks us all into action, for even those who benefit from the systems that have held the people hostage are able to see that justice must be served."

The silhouette fades, and to my horror, a video clip starts to play—one of me and Aoife on the street outside the gift shop, filmed from at least thirty feet away. We're chatting like old friends, and as we move toward the Range Rover, she throws her arms around me as she says goodbye—and in my attempt not to offend her, I look like I'm hugging back. It's everything that damn photograph is, but worse, because no one, not even the palace, will be able to claim it's fake now. Or that it was a simple meet and greet gone terribly, unthinkably wrong.

"Our undying thanks to Evangeline Bright for the important role she played," says the pitched voice again, and I clutch the table so hard that I break a nail. "Without her contribution, our cause would have been lost, but now we are stronger than—"

Singh taps the keys again, and the screen goes blank. I open and shut my mouth, my head spinning as I try to think of something—anything—to explain why the apparent leader of the Army of the British Republic thanked me personally.

"I—I didn't have anything to do with—" I begin shakily, but Wiggs covers my hand in a silent attempt to get me to shut up. I don't, though—I physically can't stop myself, and I pull away. "I don't know these people. I only met that girl once, I swear—"

"I believe you," says Singh, and the rest of my protest dies on my tongue.

"You—what?" I say as he glances at me, then at Wiggs, who must wear a similar expression of incredulity, because despite the fact that I'm staring down the barrel of treason, there's a faint smile tugging at the corners of Singh's mouth.

He finally sits in a chair at the head of the table, next to me rather than across. "Tell me, Miss Bright," he says. "If you were running an underground organization determined to destroy the monarchy, and you were lucky enough to convince a member of the royal family to help, would you turn around and thank them publicly after failing to assassinate the King?"

This time I know better than to answer the question, and Wiggs clears his throat instead. "Miss Bright had nothing to do with the attempt on His Majesty's life, and was herself a victim who very nearly died—"

"Yes," says Singh with compassion I don't expect. "I was sorry to hear about your personal protection officer, Evangeline. I've been to the site of the bombing, and there is no question that that could have been—perhaps was meant to be—you."

I dig my nails into my palms as I remember the words Ben whispered to me only a few hours earlier. "She died to protect me," I say roughly. "I would never—never help these people try to kill my family and friends."

"On the outside looking in, there seems to be no sense in it, I agree," he says. "Though just because I don't see the connection right away doesn't mean there isn't one. In this particular case, however," he adds, gesturing toward the laptop, "it is far too neat. It's so perfect that it's sloppy."

I don't know what to say to that, or if I should say anything at all, and so I let Wiggs do the talking yet again. "Miss Bright only met the alleged bomber once, during a brief outing in Norfolk—"

"A fact which Lord Clarence has confirmed—multiple times, each more insistent than the last," says Singh. "I will need to hear your version of events, Evangeline. But for now, I'm far more curious why the Army of the British Republic would name you, specifically, as their accomplice."

"Miss Bright had nothing to do with—"

"Yet again, Mr. Wiggs, I believe her." Singh eyes the pair of us. "Do you think it might be possible to work under the presumption that I am an ally, not an enemy? My goal is to find out what happened to His Majesty and the victims of the bombing, and to identify the members of this organization before they can do any more harm. It is quite curious to me that they would name Evangeline rather than the much more plausible Lord Clarence, and I'd like to hear her thoughts on why."

After a brief pause, Wiggs nods slightly toward me, and I gulp. "I don't know," I say at last. "None of it makes sense. That picture, the video—all of it had to be a setup, but I don't know why."

My voice breaks on this last word, but I force myself to hold it together, and again I hear Ben's whisper.

It was meant to be you.

That wasn't the only thing he said before leaving the conference room, though. And with a sudden stark clarity, I look at Singh, my eyes wide.

"Ben," I blurt. "Prince Benedict, my cousin. He said something to me and Kit earlier—"

"Miss Bright," says Wiggs in a warning tone, but when I feel his touch again, I jerk away.

"I'd like to hear what His Royal Highness said," says Singh to Wiggs, but the words are already tumbling out of me.

"He told Kit—Christopher Abbott-Montgomery—he said something like, ‘my condolences for your most recent failure. Maybe you'll finally get the job done next time.' I didn't understand what he was talking about," I add quickly, before either Singh or Wiggs can interrupt. "But I didn't know about—about the group Kit joined, or that Aoife was working for the bombers, or any of it."

Singh pulls a small notepad out of his suit jacket and flips through a few pages. "I don't recall Lord Clarence mentioning this interaction."

"Ask him," I say. "He'll tell you. Ask everyone seated by the door in the conference room—they could hear it, too."

Singh scribbles a note. "So you believe that your cousin, His Royal Highness Prince Benedict, is also trying to frame you?"

"That's quite enough," blusters Wiggs. "It's one thing to question Miss Bright about her involvement when she has been named by the organization in question, but to drag His Royal Highness into this when he is not here to defend himself—"

"He told me it was meant to be me," I say, and my voice wavers as my face grows hot. "In the conference room, before he accused Kit of being involved in the bombing—he whispered in my ear and said it was meant to be me."

Singh leans forward before Wiggs can come up with a coherent response. "And you believe His Royal Highness was referring to…?"

"Ingrid," I manage shakily. "Or maybe Alexander. I don't know. It was a threat. All he does is threaten me. Back in June, he told me he was going to destroy me, and now every time I see him, it's like he's trying to decide what to put on my gravestone. He was there at Sandringham when someone tried to kill me and Kit, but even though he was with Alexander and the rest of the hunting party, I'm sure he had something to do with it, and—"

"I'm afraid Miss Bright has had a very difficult few days," says Wiggs suddenly. "Unless you have any further questions regarding her single brief meeting with Aoife Marsh, then I must insist that you allow her time to rest."

My eyes are blurry with tears of frustration now, but I can still see Singh watching me. I want to say more—I should say more—but Wiggs is right. I have no evidence. I have no proof that Ben is behind any of this, only a bone-deep certainty that every terrible thing that's happened somehow points back to him. But he has an alibi for all of it, and while Ben may be many things, he isn't the kind of reckless that would ever let him slip. At least not where anyone else could see it.

"Yes, I think it might be prudent to continue this conversation at another time," agrees Singh, his dark eyes still on me as he closes his notebook. "For now, I would suggest you remain in the comfort of the royal residences, Evangeline. We don't have a full picture of what the Army of the British Republic's intentions are, nor what other plans may already be in motion, and it's best not to give them any opportunities."

Opportunities. "You mean chances to try again," I mumble, and he nods.

"Yes, among other things."

I stare at the grain of the polished wooden table as all the fight and stubbornness drain out of me. If I stay at Windsor, then I won't be able to sit with my mom at Alexander's bedside. But the thought of making her a target, too, is enough to nauseate me all over again, and I take a deep breath and nod.

"Everyone's going to think Kit and I were behind this, aren't they?" I say in a small voice.

"It's likely, for the time being," says Singh plainly. "Should this all be a misunderstanding, however, no doubt the public will be relieved to hear it."

That's definitely not true. I'm still being blamed for Jasper's death in plenty of corners of the internet, and no matter what happens next, I know that those same people will latch onto these accusations like leeches until there's nothing left of the truth to believe. And by the time this is over, even if the prime minister himself declares on national television that I had absolutely nothing to do with this, it'll be too late.

Everyone in the world is going to think I tried to kill my father. And I have no way to prove I didn't.