Chapter Thirty-one

Is it time to admit, once and for all, that teenagers are too young to rule?

Princess Mary might have been groomed from birth to be our future monarch, but at eighteen years, six months, and sixteen days old, she can barely be trusted to sign her name in the right place, and we as a United Kingdom and Commonwealth ought to be shaking in our boots at the very notion of her taking on the lifelong job of queen.

After all, what teen today isn't far more occupied with their follower counts and ever-evolving trends than with politics and diplomatic relations? The royal family has always been an exception to the plague of modernity, or so we're led to imagine. But while Princess Mary has been a shining star during her dozens of official appearances over the past six months, smiling for the cameras and shaking hands hardly qualifies her to lead on the global stage.

I know what many of you must be thinking—no doubt of the last great queen who ruled our nation, Victoria, who ascended the throne at the age of eighteen. But times were different nearly two hundred years ago, and children were far more prepared to take on the responsibilities that came with their station. Now one cannot make small talk with anyone under the age of twenty without being accused of a slip of the tongue that leads to theatrical claims of offense. And while we have watched Her Royal Highness as she has grown from fragile newborn to the sunny young woman she is today, the palace has only recently begun to present her as our future sovereign, and in a time of great turmoil, the British people deserve the stability and reassurance that comes with the known.

Though the Regency Act of 2005 makes it clear that Her Royal Highness would be assisted by a so-called royal council, with the third in line to the throne being deliberately passed over in favour of the King's illegitimate American daughter, it's time to pose the question we've all been thinking: Just how seriously are we meant to take this farce of temporary rule?

Should the worst come to pass and His Majesty fail to recover from his reportedly severe injuries after the 12 January bombing, would Britain not be better off in the hands of a prince who has decades of experience as a working royal? A proper regency would require that Prince Nicholas, the Duke of York, rule in Princess Mary's stead until her twenty-first birthday, allowing her more time to grow and mature into the monarch we all wish her to be. It would allow for fewer hiccups, no doubt, and certainly less wariness and scrutiny both within and beyond our borders.

With as much turmoil as the King and his wayward family have caused over the past seven months, is it too much to hope that perhaps the royals might finally prioritize the people and the stability of this country over their own privilege and entitlement? Or could we as a country finally find relief from this never-ending roller coaster of drama?

—Op-Ed in the Daily Sun, 17 January 2024

THE FIRST THING MY MOTHER does when we return to Windsor Castle is head straight for the shower.

"I'll meet you in your rooms in twenty minutes, all right?" she says, her fingers running through my hair. "I just need to wash the hospital smell off."

She says this with a slight shudder, and I'm too wrung out to tell if she's trying to keep things lighthearted, or if it really does bother her. Either way, I agree, and I drop her off at Alexander's apartment before sniffing my own hair. It also smells vaguely like antiseptic, and I wrinkle my nose.

"Evan?"

I whirl around. Rosie stands outside Maisie's door, only twenty feet or so from Alexander's. Her freckled face is pale and free of makeup, and she looks so startlingly lost that for a second, I'm sure something else has happened.

"Rosie?" I say. "What are you doing here? Is Maisie—"

"She's in her sitting room," says Rosie quickly, like she knows I can't take any more bad news right now. "Your mum's still in England? I thought…"

There's something strange about the way she says this, like she's putting the pieces of a puzzle together, and I can practically see the gears turning in her mind. "Yeah, she's still here," I say, glancing at Alexander's door. There's no point in lying, after all, not if Rosie's already seen her. "She's been staying at the hospital with Alexander."

"Oh." Rosie's lips thin. "I didn't know."

Even though I'm not exactly her favorite person, not when I'm the one dating Kit, I expect her to ask something else—why my mom's hanging around, maybe, or even how Alexander's doing. But instead she tugs nervously at one of her blond curls, and I swear I see her gulp.

"Is Gia here, too?" I venture, and she shakes her head, her green eyes growing round.

"Maisie texted me earlier. She's having a really bad day, and I thought maybe I could help, but all she's really done is throw things and scream. I don't…I don't know what to do anymore."

Her voice breaks, and I feel a sudden stab of pity for her. "I can try to talk to her, if you think she'll let me," I say, even though I know this is a terrible suggestion. Maisie's barely been able to look at me since the news of the photo broke, and there's a very real chance I'll only make things worse. But Rosie nods eagerly, as if this is the greatest idea she's ever heard.

"Maybe she'll listen to you." But as she says it, the faint sound of shattering glass echoes from inside Maisie's apartment, and Rosie flinches. "Or at the very least, maybe she'll stop breaking things. Some of those are priceless, you know."

Taking a deep breath, I steel myself and approach Maisie's door. I can feel Rosie's nervous gaze on me as I knock, and I'm not at all surprised when Maisie's snarl cuts through the air like a knife.

"I told you to piss off, Rosie!"

"Off to a great start," I mutter before raising my voice. "It's me. Can I come in?"

Maisie lets out a string of curses so obscene that I nearly abandon the whole idea. But before I can talk myself out of this entirely, her door flies open, and I'm face to face with my seething sister.

"What?"she says, and over her shoulder, I notice several picture frames and chunks of glass scattered across her cream carpet. After almost seven years in boarding schools, I'm no stranger to tantrums, but the ones I've witnessed didn't involve artifacts older than most trees.

"My mom and I just got back from the hospital," I say with all the nonchalance I can muster. "I thought you'd like an update."

Maisie's jaw is clenched, and her entire body seems to vibrate with pent-up emotion as she inhales. "Rosie," she says after a beat. "Have someone bring us a pot of tea. Make sure it's hot."

The thought of Maisie being anywhere near boiling liquid right now isn't exactly comforting, but Rosie nods and scurries off, and finally my sister stalks back into her apartment, leaving me room to step inside. I do so carefully, eyeing the floor for pieces of glass, not in the mood for another round of stitches.

"How is he?" she says waspishly, walking through the shards in her high heels with several loud crunches. I skirt the edges of the room as I head for her antique white telephone, which is set on an end table near her sofa.

"He's not getting worse," I say. "Which is about all anyone can ask for right now. My mom said the swelling takes time to go down, and when it does—"

"Daddy has to be okay," she says, cutting me off. "He has tobe."

"I…No one really knows yet," I admit. "But my mom said—"

"I don't care what your bloody mother said," bursts Maisie, and I'm not sure which startles me more—her words or the fact that she's suddenly a teary mess. "I can't do this, Evan. I can't—Ican't be queen, not yet. It's too bloody soon, and I'm supposed to have years—decades before I have to make these kinds of decisions, but suddenly everyone's looking to me like I have the answers, as if genetics alone is enough—"

"It's not all on you, not yet," I say, easing around the remains of what I think might've been a snow globe. "You have your mother and Constance and Nicholas—"

"The papers are calling for a regency," she says with such venom and heartbreak all at once that the words come out guttural. "If Daddy—if Daddy never wakes up, they want Nicholas to reign until I'm twenty-one."

I study her. "Is that a good thing, or…?"

"Of course it's not a good thing!" she explodes, grabbing the nearest item—a lamp—and hurling it at the floor. As it shatters, a streak of red appears on her leg, though she doesn't seem to notice. "The people don't trust me. They don't think I'm up for the job, but of course Nicholas, perfect bloody Nicholas, is exactly what this country needs right now. Never mind that Victoria became queen when she was eighteen, or that Mary, Queen of Scots, was six days old. Six days! And obviously it's disputed, but Lady Jane Grey was fifteen when Edward VI, who was nine when he became king, died and named her his heir, and King Henry VIII was seventeen—"

"It's alarming that you know all this off the top of your head," I say.

"It's my bloody job to know this," she snaps, marching past her sofa toward her bookcase, where there's a hand-painted music box sitting beside a leather-bound set of Shakespeare plays. "My entire education has been to prepare me for becoming queen. I've studied history, politics, economics, constitutional law—all to be the best monarch I can be when the time comes. It didn't matter that I like maths and science. I learned some, of course, because I can't count on my bloody fingers in front of the world, can I? But who I am and who, in another life, I might've wanted to be—none of it matters, because I'm going to be queen. It's destiny. And now these people—these bloody people—are trying to take it from me like I'm not singularly qualified. Like I'm some—some teenager who can't control herself and who'll throw a tantrum if I don't get my—"

Maisie stops abruptly as her fingers close around the music box, and without any prompting from me, she looks around at the utter destruction that is her sitting room. Picture frames torn off the walls. Trinkets and teacups and paperweights that are little more than dust now, and several antique books with freshly torn pages. Her hand falls to her side, and without warning, her face crumples as she dissolves into sobs.

Inwardly cursing the thin soles of my flats, I tiptoe as fast as I can through the wreckage until I reach her. She tries to push me away, but her attempts are half-hearted, and I capture her in a hug.

"From where I'm standing, you're doing an incredible job," I say. "Every single meeting, you take charge, and even when you don't know what the answer is, you listen, and you process, and you decide. Nicholas might have more experience, but you're a born leader, Maisie."

"I don't want to be," she whimpers, her arms snaking around me until she's the one holding me to her. "I want him back. I want more time. I shouldn't—I shouldn't have to do this yet."

"No, you shouldn't," I say quietly. "I'm sorry."

Maybe no one has actually said this to her, or maybe all she wants is for someone to understand, because this seems to trigger another flood of tears, and she clings to me like I'm a life raft. We stand there for a minute or two as she cries so hard that her entire body is wracked with sobs, until at last, with several wet sniffles, she lets me go.

"Sit down," I say, nodding toward a nearby love seat. "You're dripping all over the carpet."

"What?" she says, dazed, and only then does she notice the blood still trickling down her leg. With a curse, she limps over to the sofa, and I grab a cushion to keep her injury from ruining the white velvet.

As she's inspecting the cut, I pick up the corded handset of her telephone, and I'm instantly connected to an operator. "Yes, Your Royal Highness?" says a low female voice on the other end.

"This is Evangeline," I say. "I'm with Princess Mary. Everything's okay, but we need a maid and a doctor, please."

"Yes, Miss Bright," says the operator smoothly, as if this is hardly an unusual request. "I'll send for both right away."

"Thank you," I say, and I hang up the phone with a click. Almost as soon as I do, there's a knock on the door, and without waiting for a response, a protection officer steps inside.

"Your Royal Highness," he says, and I notice his hand is resting on his holster. "Is everything all right?"

As soon as he says it, he seems to notice the debris, and his gaze snaps straight to me. "Maisie had a rough afternoon," I say dryly, not at all appreciating the implication of his stare.

"I'm fine," she mumbles without glancing up from her leg. "I just need a bandage, that's all. And for you to go."

The protection officer heads for us anyway, the glass under his shoes crackling with each step he takes. He pulls a small first aid kit seemingly out of nowhere, and I watch as he snaps on a pair of latex gloves and removes several alcohol swabs, gauze, and medical tape from the pack.

"Thank you," says Maisie testily as he starts to mop up the blood for her. "That will be all."

"Ma'am—" he begins, but she cuts him off.

"I said go. I'm hardly going to bleed to death from a scratch."

The officer looks between us dubiously, but Maisie's glare doesn't waver, and at last he stands.

"I'll be outside if you need anything," he says, and this time, I notice that he takes the long route around the worst of the carnage before heading back out the door.

As soon as we're alone once more, Maisie lets out a muffled screech. "Do you see?" she says, tears flooding her eyes all over again. "This is my life now, and the people won't even let me have that. There are already rumors about what sort of queen I'll be, or that I'm impulsive and can't make decisions, and—have you read the Regal Record lately?"

"No," I say, offering her a tissue. She snatches it from me and dabs the cut with a distinct lack of gentleness. "My phone and laptop were taken by MI5, remember?"

"Probably for the best," she says with vague irritation, and though I want to know what she means, I don't push. "Yesterday, at the meeting, I asked Grandmama about how we might approach the weekly session with the prime minister today. If it ought to be all five of us, or if it should just be me and Mummy."

"I remember." Thankfully, Nicholas was the only one who voted for the entire royal council to attend.

"Well, less than three hours later, there was an article up on the Regal Record about it," she says with a sniff. "They went onand on about how I shouldn't be allowed to meet the prime minister without Nicholas, not when I'm not even regent yet, and since he's next in line after me, it'd only be prudent if…if…"

She wipes her eyes with the back of her wrist, and I offer her another tissue. "Can I tell you something?" I say uncertainly, and this immediately grabs her attention.

"You can tell me anything."

That's definitely not true, but I press on anyway. "I think there's a mole in the castle," I say. "One who's been leaking information to the Regal Record."

"Well, obviously," she mutters. "It was Ben, wasn't it? We figured that out ages ago."

"Yes, but—he hasn't been here," I point out. "He's in Belgium right now. But the Regal Record is still getting little scoops like that—information that no one outside of that meeting should have."

Her hand stills. "You think someone else is going to them now?"

I nod. "They knew about your injuries after the crowd surge, Maisie. And about your breakup with Gia. There are other things, too—little things they shouldn't know, but do, and it's constant. Someone close to you is selling secrets to the Regal Record."

Maisie looks up at me, the second tissue now pressed against her cut. "Who? And don't you dare hold back," she adds as I hesitate. "You wouldn't tell me this if you didn't have a theory."

"I…" I rip open an alcohol swab and hand it to her. "I don't know who. But it has to be someone close to you. Close to both of us. The breakup with Gia, for instance…who else knew about that except the five of us in the room?"

"I was upset," says Maisie defensively. "And with the way Gia stormed out of here, anyone could've guessed."

"Maybe," I say. "But they knew it was because of the roses that Thaddeus sent you. Did you tell anyone else? Your mom, maybe? Or even Alexander?"

She grows quiet for a long moment. "No," she says at last. "I didn't tell anyone. Just you, Kit, Rosie, and Gia."

"Then one of us is the mole," I say. "Unless someone else found out, it's the only possibility."

"But—" Maisie stops. "It isn't me. Obviously it isn't me. And it can't be Gia or Rosie, either."

"Why not?" I say, and instantly I know I've waded into dangerous territory.

"Because," she says sharply, "they've been my best friends since we were in nursery together. They've never betrayed me—not once—and there's no reason in the world they might start now."

"No reason that you know of," I say, and her glare is so withering that I have to fight the urge to flinch.

"What about Kit?" she retorts. "He was there, too, and he's the one who's chummy with terrorists. Maybe he also tipped off the Regal Record and sent in that photo of you hugging the bomber. He's the only one of us who knew about it, after all, and with everything else the papers are saying—" She cuts herself off and shakes her head. "He's the most likely suspect."

I open my mouth to tell her in no uncertain terms that it couldn't be him—that he wouldn't do something so awful, that there's no way he would ever betray either of us—but it's the same knee-jerk reaction she had to my suggestion of Gia and Rosie. And instead, even though it takes every ounce of willpower I have, I press my lips together and consider it.

She's right. He has been there for all of it. He was the one tosuggest the trip to the shop. He was the one to introduce metoAoife. He also knew about Maisie's injuries, and the breakup, and the roses—everything that Gia and Rosie knew and more.

On paper, it makes sense. It more than makes sense—he really should be our prime suspect. But as I think about the things he's said, the things he's done to protect me, the changes he's been willing to make in his own life to keep me safe and unafraid…maybe I'm every bit as in denial as Maisie is, but it doesn't fit. It just doesn't.

"Did I ever tell you that I blamed him for leaking the story about my mom's illness to the press?" I say. "Back in June, the morning the news broke. He was the only one I ever told."

Maisie scowls. "What does that have to do with—"

"I was wrong. It wasn't Kit," I say. "Even though he let me believe it was, even though I almost lost him, it wasn't him. And I'm not going to put Kit through that again. Not unless we have irrefutable proof."

"And I'm not going to blame the only two friends I have because you can't see what's right in front of you," she snaps. "He was there for all of it."

"Yes, he was," I say. "And maybe that's the point. Maybe the real mole is trying to frame him, too, just like Ben tried to frame me last summer."

Maisie lets out a derisive snort and shakes her head. "You think this is still about Ben? The bombing, the attacks—" She shakes her head incredulously. "You're absolutely mad."

After the conversation I had with my mother that morning, her words are a slap to the face. But I swallow the sting and press on, refusing to rise to her bait.

"Ben knew about the photo with Aoife before it was posted," I say with all the steadiness I can muster. "During that first meeting after the bombing—he said that he wouldn't be surprised if the public wasn't thrilled about me being part of the council."

"Yes, but that could've meant anything—"

"He offered Kit his condolences for his failure," I say, and this time it's my voice that rises. "Maisie, he meant the bombing. He knew Kit was in the picture, too—he knew Kit was part of that group. He knew it all. He even said—"

I stop suddenly, and Maisie pulls her leg from the pillow so she can face me properly.

"What, Evan?" she says, fury radiating from her. "What awful thing did Ben supposedly say that made you think he knew about the bombers?"

"He said…" I stare at her, positive she won't believe me. She didn't hear it, after all—no one else did. But I'm sure it was real. "He said it was supposed to be me. The people who died in the bombing—the Abr was after me, Maisie. Ben said—"

She laughs, a cold sound that seems to drop the temperature in the room a good twenty degrees. "You just have to make this all about you, don't you? Never mind that eight people died, and that Daddy's in hospital and might never wake up. Oh, no—this must all be about the great Evangeline Bright."

My mouth drops open, and for a long moment, I have no idea what to say. "Maisie, I'm not making this up—"

"And that's the worst part," she says. "That you actually believe it. Fine, there might be a mole—I'll give you that. And yes, they're feeding secrets to the Regal Record, which Ben also manipulated for his own personal gain. But as awful as last summer was, there is an entire universe between blackmail and the murder of eight people."

"That doesn't—"

"I've known Ben my entire life, Evan. He's my cousin. I know how he thinks, what he's capable of—"

"You didn't seem to believe he was the one behind the video, either," I say, my voice breaking again.

"No, but this is treason, Evan. This is—it's unthinkable." She shakes her head, her face twisted with incredulity. "He loves this family. He loves the monarchy, and he would never do anything to destroy it. I know he wouldn't. You, on the other hand…"

Her words hit me like a semitruck, and as muffled voices sound in the corridor, I gawk at her, wondering if I've imagined this, too.

"What…?" I say, but it's all I can manage to squeeze out of my rapidly tightening throat.

Something that might be a hint of regret flickers across Maisie's face, but it's gone before I'm sure it's real. "You're the only newcomer, Evangeline. Everyone else in my life has been there practically from the start, and they've proven time and time again that they're loyal. But if you want to talk about who might be feeding information to the Regal Record, let's look at you, shall we? Because you knew it all, too."

I open and shut my mouth so many times that I feel like a fish trying to breathe. "Maisie, it wasn't me—"

"And it wasn't me, it wasn't Gia, and it wasn't Rosie," she snarls. "I know why you hate Ben. I hate him, too. But everything that's gone wrong in my life lately only happened after you showed up, and I'm beginning to think it isn't a bloody coincidence."

I try to speak—to defend myself, to swear it wasn't me—but the words don't come. And as the door opens once more, this time to a voice I recognize as Dr. Gupta's, I slowly step back from the couch.

"That's what I thought," says Maisie with such searing malice that it feels like she's ripped out some vital part of me and smashed it, too. "Leave, before I call security. And if you ever try to accuse my friends of treason again, I will make you regret the day you ever stepped foot in my country. Is that understood?"

My mouth is as dry as a desert, and I can't speak, but I can't nod, either. Because nodding feels like an admission somehow, and even though every bone in my body feels like it's turned into concrete, I can't give her that. Not when it isn't true. Not when she has it all so impossibly wrong that I don't know which way is up anymore.

Instead, as Gupta and his assistants file into the room, along with a small army of cleaners who immediately start picking up the glass, I turn around and slink toward the door. I wait for her to say something else—to get in a few last words, or maybe, impossibly, to take it all back. But she doesn't. And as I step over the threshold and into the cold corridor beyond, it feels like the delicate fabric that is our relationship has shredded into threads, and nothing will ever be able to weave it back together.