Chapter Thirty-six

"Henrietta, with the news of a fire breaking out at Windsor Castle this morning, it's time to ask ourselves the obvious question—is our royal family under attack?"

"After the shooting at Sandringham, the bombing of the Modern Music Museum, and now reports of a fire intentionally set in the private apartments of Windsor, I'm afraid there's little room for doubt anymore. Our royal family—our monarchy—our country is under attack from the so-called Army of the British Republic."

"For our viewers who may have missed our breaking news bulletin just minutes ago, the Abr has released another video taking credit for the fire and yet again thanking Evangeline Bright for the role she played. What do you make of this? With so much suspicion now being cast on His Majesty's illegitimate daughter, why has she been allowed to remain on royal grounds?"

"Well, the answer's clear, isn't it? The palace doesn't believe the accusations have any merit."

"And yet the Abr insists she was the one who started the fire. Who are we supposed to believe?"

"There are those who will jump to the very worst conclusions without a second thought, of course, but I believe it is vital we all keep an open mind. Remember, Evangeline has only been in the country for seven months, and much of her time has been spent sheltered in Windsor Castle. How would she have made these connections? How would she have been radicalised so quickly?"

"We already know, of course. Lord Clarence, the nephew of Her Majesty the Queen and Evangeline's rumoured boyfriend, also has proven ties to the group through his friendship with terrorist Aoife Marsh."

"Perhaps, and perhaps I'm naive in thinking there's more to the story. But something about this doesn't add up for me. Evangeline was, after all, the alleged victim of the Christmas Eve hunting accident at Sandringham, which is now speculated to be the first of the Abr's attacks on the royal family."

"A hunting accident for which the Abr has never taken credit."

"A point well made. But let's put this all into perspective, shall we? What would the Abr gain by revealing such a well-placed member of their operation? And what would Evangeline gain by continuing to do their bidding after they revealed her supposed involvement in the bombing?"

"Perhaps she is being blackmailed."

"The royal family employs some of the most highly trained and decorated security experts in the world. If anyone tried to blackmail a member of the royal family…well, let's just say it wouldn't end well for them."

"Nor does it seem like this will end well for Evangeline. With calls for her arrest being made not only on social media, but by celebrities, international figures, and even members of Parliament, it is only a matter of time before the public loses their faith in the palace's judgment."

"We have no way of really knowing what's going on behind closed doors, particularly now that the royal family's inner circle has closed ranks. But should there be even a kernel of truth in the rumours of Evangeline's involvement, then we can only hope that for the sake of the country, the palace allows those investigating these attacks on the royal family to seek justice."

"And if she is found guilty?"

"Well—let's not get ahead of ourselves. The royal family is going through enough right now without us all playing judge, jury, and executioner for one of their own."

"But no one is above the law, are they?"

"No, of course not. Not even those of royal blood."

—ITV News's interview with royal expert Henrietta Smythe, 18 January 2024

AS I STEP INTO THE interview room, which is little more than a featureless box only a few degrees above frosty, the heavy metal door clangs shut behind me, and the lock slides into place.

Suraj Singh is already inside, standing in a corner like a well-dressed sentry, and he acknowledges me with a single nod. His presence in the room is a condition of the deal Maisie and Jenkins managed to strike with the Home Office, but while I'm not thrilled about it, my attention immediately snaps to the girl sitting on the far side of the long metal table, her wrists and ankles bound in handcuffs and chained to the concrete floor.

Despite the red waves tumbling over her shoulders, Aoife Marsh seems colorless somehow, as gray as her oversized sweatshirt. Any hint of the bubbly girl I met in the gift shop near Sandringham is gone, replaced by hollow cheekbones, dark circles, and a hopelessness in her dull green eyes that feels excruciatingly familiar.

For a split second, when she sees me, there's a spark of something on her face—excitement, or possibly relief. Maybe even hope. But when she offers me a tentative smile and I refuse to return it, that spark vanishes so fast that it might as well have never existed at all.

"I can't believe you're really here," she says, and even though here is a Category A prison, surrounded by so many layers of security that I feel claustrophobic, her voice is as sweet as ever. "I've been begging to speak to you, and my lawyer promised he'd pass the message on, but of course they say those things, and I never thought—"

"No one asked me to come," I say flatly. "I'm here because I need answers."

"Oh." She parts her lips to say something else, but it takes her a moment to speak. "Did they tell you I'm innocent? It was all a setup, God's honest truth. I had no idea what they were planning—"

"Is Ben involved in the Abr?" I say. After listening to Rosie sob all morning, I have no interest in hearing more excuses. "Prince Benedict. Is he in any way connected to you?"

"Prince…?" Her voice trails off, and she shakes her head. "Dylan talks about him sometimes, but I've never met him. Evangeline, I swear it on my grave, they were using me. I didn't know what was happening. I didn't know what Dylan and the others were planning. The club—Fox Rex, it was just supposed to be a laugh—something to do together at uni, an excuse to drink and meet other people who weren't so keen on the royals. I had no idea they were recruiting for a—a terrorist group, and if I had, I would've told someone, cross my heart—"

"What does Dylan say when he talks about Benedict?" I say, cutting her off. Aoife blinks.

"I—I don't know. He comes up sometimes, when Dylan mentions Eton. I think they were mates, but I can't say for sure. I didn't know about the photo, Evangeline, I swear it. No one told me to hug you, and I didn't know they had a camera—Ididn't know what they were planning—"

"So as far as you know, Benedict isn't involved in the Abr?" I say.

"I didn't even know there was an Abr," she insists, her voice cracking with desperation. "I was only at the museum because of your text."

"My text?" I say, startled. "What text?"

Aoife bites her lower lip. "You know, the one where you said you wanted me there. It's on my mobile. The police took it, but—"

"I didn't text you," I say, sharper than I should, given she looks like she's about to burst into tears.

"But—but it came from your number. It's the only reason I went to the opening. It's why I've been asking to see you—because you could prove that you invited me. Because you did, right? It had to be you. I'm sure it was."

Even though I know I shouldn't, I glance nervously over my shoulder. But Singh's already been through my phone—he knows every single message I've sent, and that none of them were to Aoife. Or the number Kit pretended was hers. "I never texted you, Aoife," I say. "Whoever gave you my number…it wasn't really mine."

"I…" Aoife falls short again, and this time she looks so crestfallen that I almost feel sorry for her. "It wasn't?" she whispers. "But…but Dylan said…"

A lump of frustration forms in my throat, and I force it down as I push my chair back with a hair-raising screech of metal against concrete. "I'm sorry if they really did trick you," I say in a measured voice, even though my patience is frayed to the last thread. "But if you don't know anything, then there's no point in me staying."

"Wait." Her voice catches as I stand. "Evangeline, please—you have to believe me. I didn't do this. I had no idea."

"You must've known something, Aoife," I say. "You can't tell me you spent months hanging out with terrorists and didn't overhear anything about Ben, or their leaders, or what they planned to do—"

"The leader's name is Guy," she blurts. "Except—I don't think that's his real name. But it's what everyone calls him."

"Guy? As in Guy Fawkes?" I say, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Singh shift his weight. This must be new information. "Who is he?"

Aoife's lips part, and she averts her gaze, staring at her ragged nails instead. Even from a distance, I can tell they've been bitten to the quick. "He's older than us. A graduate student, I think. He was with me at the museum opening. I didn't know he was there until—until he found me in the crowd, but he was."

I take my seat again, my mind racing. "Was he wearing a teal scarf?"

Her eyes dart back up to meet mine. "How did you…?"

"I'm pretty sure he's been stalking me," I mutter. "Has he ever mentioned Ben?"

"Maybe. I don't know. He gives me the shivers, so I don't usually…I don't usually talk to him."

"Why does he give you the shivers?" I press, and Aoife lets out a single rueful laugh.

"Some people, you just know they're trouble, don't you? But everyone else loved him. Flocked to him when he bothered to show—which wasn't all that often, mind, but when he did, the rest of them thought it was grand. Like meeting a celebrity."

"Do you know the names of the other members of the club?" I say, but Aoife shakes her head.

"A few, maybe. But I was really only there for Dylan."

We're getting nowhere again, and my irritation must show, because she leans forward, her hands tugging at her chains.

"I know they have loads of contacts and donors—people who were part of the club when they were students, that sort. I couldn't say how many of them know about the Abr, or if they're in the dark, like me. But Guy likes to brag about it—how we're part of an illustrious group dating back decades, including members of Parliament, lawyers, doctors, journalists, barons, viscounts, and even people inside the palace—"

"People inside the palace?" I echo, alarmed. "Who? Did he ever give you names?"

"No, no one told me anything," insists Aoife. "I didn't know about the Abr, I didn't know about—about the bombing—but…"

She trails off, and I can see the wheels turning in her mind. "What?" I say, but it takes her another few seconds to respond.

"Outside of the museum opening," she says slowly—so slowly that I'm on tenterhooks now, "Guy seemed…happy. Like everything was going according to plan. I thought maybe he was pleased that Kit was there, since he was a new recruit to Fox Rex, and maybe Guy was chuffed to have a member so close to the royal family. But…" She gulps. "I didn't think anything of it at the time, because Guy can be a bit…off, yeah? He said something about…about being glad the appearance hadn't been canceled. That it was the perfect location, exactly where he wanted it to be—"

Suddenly there's a buzz behind me, and I glance over at Singh again, only to see him punching a number into his phone. "If you'll excuse me," he says, and he hastily moves to the door and knocks. A beat later, it opens for him, and as he crosses the threshold, he starts to speak.

"Cooper. It's Singh. I need a list of staff at—"

The door shuts behind him, and for a moment, Aoife and I stare at each other, both of us confused into silence. I want to ask what this means—what clues Singh noticed that went over my head—but Aoife's eyes are overflowing again, and she tugs at her restraints like she wants to reach across the table for my hand.

"Evangeline, please," she begs, softer now. "You have to believe me. I'd never hurt anyone—I swear it. I'll admit, I'm not overly fond of the royals and all they stand for, but it's not personal. And I like you. I like Kit. I'm not a murderer. I'd never—I'd never—"

She's sobbing now, every bit as hard as Rosie was in Kit's sitting room. I should comfort her, maybe. Offer her words of assurance, promise to get to the bottom of it. But all I can see as I watch her are the bloody remains of Ingrid's body, and my father lying broken in a hospital bed, a single complication away from death.

"The Abr protested outside Sandringham the day we met," I say, and even to my ears, I sound hollow. "Were you part of that?"

"N-no," she hiccups, her watery eyes round, and even though I don't want to believe her, I think I do. "I arrived maybe an hour before Dylan suggested we go into town. And once we were there, he said there was an ice cream shop we had to try—that's why we went in. He suggested it. He suggested the whole thing."

She sniffs loudly, and her restraints rattle again as she tries to raise her hand. With a wince, she rubs her nose against her shoulder instead, leaving a streak of tears and mucus across her sweatshirt. I watch her, feeling strangely detached from her overt show of emotion, and at last I ask my final question.

"Do you know who shot me and Kit?"

Aoife's mouth opens again, and this time there's no mistaking her shock for anything but real. "I—it was both of you? I thought…the tabloids said it was only you."

"He threw himself in front of me," I say coldly. "And I want to know who almost killed him."

Aoife is silent for several seconds, but her hands are shaking now, and I know that finally, finally I've found a secret.

"I don't know," she whispers. "But…that morning, Dylan was texting someone, and he left early. Really early. Said he had a few more gifts to buy in town, but…but I peeked out the window to watch him go, and…he had…he had his rifle slung over his…"

Her face crumples as she chokes on the rest of her words, but she's already said enough. While this small bit of circumstantial evidence is just one more stone to add to the mountain that should—but doesn't—prove Ben's involvement, it's the piece of the puzzle that finally shows me the full picture.

Ben, who bugged my room at Sandringham, heard Kit telling Maisie where we'd be walking that morning. And there's no doubt in my mind that Ben sent Dylan to do his dirty work for him.

This time, when I stand, I'm careful not to drag the chair along the floor. I head toward the exit on silent feet, but once I reach it, I turn back to Aoife. "Dylan is a good shot, isn't he?" I say, and she manages a jerking nod.

"Y-yes," she gasps. "Please, Ev-Evangeline—please, you have to—to believe me—I didn't—I didn't—"

"Okay," I say, knocking on the door. "I believe you."

Her eyes widen, and she sits up straighter, her tear-streaked face full of astonishment. "You—you do?" she says, and the hope in her voice is a knife to my gut.

"I do," I say as the door opens. "But it won't make a difference, Aoife. You know that, right? Because the entire world thinks I'm guilty, too."

Her jaw goes slack, and she stares at me with dawning horror. But before she can say another word, I turn and walk away, and I don't—can't—look back.

Kit and Jenkins are waiting for me in a room down the hall, where three more agents from the Home Office are watching a weeping Aoife on a monitor and speaking quietly among themselves. Jenkins reaches me first, and he places his hands on my shoulders, his gaze searching mine.

"That was a brave thing you did, darling," he says, and I shake my head.

"Didn't really have a choice. She only wanted to talk to me," I say quietly, and as Jenkins lets me go, Kit takes his place, silently gathering me in his arms. But while I bury my face in the crook of his neck, I'm numb. Even though I finally have the answers I've been looking for, I still don't have the one thing I need—the one thing that ties this all together: irrefutable evidence that Ben is responsible for everything.

"What if we can never prove it?" I mumble. We can't speak freely, not in front of the agents, but Kit knows exactly what I'm talking about.

"We will," he murmurs as he rubs my back. "He'll slip up eventually."

I close my eyes as the soft sound of Aoife's wails echo through the room. "Maybe," I say. "But how many more people are we going to lose first?"

Someone clears their throat, and I look up to see Singh standing on the threshold, phone in hand. "Mr. Jenkins. I'm afraid that call is necessary," he says, and Jenkins stiffens.

"Very well," he says, and after offering me a small smile that isn't remotely convincing, he excuses himself to the other side of the room and pulls out his mobile.

"What's going on?" I say, but Singh gestures toward the hallway.

"If I could have a minute with both of you," he says, and it's the kind of request that isn't really a request at all.

Confused, I take Kit's hand and follow Singh into the wide corridor. It's empty, except for a few doors that remain firmly closed, and Singh glances over his shoulder before facing Kit and me head-on.

"Four of the doctors working at the hospital where His Majesty is staying studied at Oxford," he says in a low voice. "Three from colleges we know Fox Rex recruits from. We've pulled them from the floor, but that's only a temporary solution. As soon as it's safe to do so, I've recommended that His Majesty be moved to a more secure location, along with the rest of the royal family."

I frown. "But the hospital's crawling with security."

"I'm aware. Until we track down a full list of Fox Rex members, both past and present, however, we must assume that anyone who fits the profile could be working for the Abr," says Singh, and I stare at him, horrified.

"Wait—so anyone who went to Oxford—"

"Is to be treated as a danger to your family," he says. "Yes."

"But—that has to be thousands of people," I say. "Tens of thousands."

"Hundreds of thousands," he corrects. "Including several royal courtiers and senior advisers—such as Harry Jenkins."

I glance back through the open doorway and catch a glimpse of Jenkins pacing the length of the office, his spine ramrod straight as he speaks into his phone. "He's not a suspect," I say firmly. "He's family."

"So is Prince Benedict," says Singh, and I scowl.

"Don't you dare compare him to Jenkins—"

"It's not a comparison, Miss Bright," he says. "It's an example of how close the Abr could be. And as it stands, we have no way of knowing who might be an alumnus—or potentially still working for them."

"What if there is no list?" says Kit, taking my hand in what feels like a silent effort to calm me down.

"I guarantee you a record exists, if only to feed their leader's ego. We're already working on it, but it'll take time to get someone on the inside."

"What about Aoife?" I say. "If she's telling the truth about being used…"

Singh tilts his head. "Did you believe her story, then?"

I consider it. "Depends. Was she lying about the text I supposedly sent?"

"No," he says. "She wasn't lying. Someone was texting her as you under an unrelated number. And that someone asked her to come to the museum opening, exactly as she described."

My entire body goes cold. "So she really is innocent?"

"It's possible," he allows. "Or it could've all been set up in such a way to give her the benefit of the doubt, in hopes she might be released. Either way, she's not a viable asset to us. At best, the leaders of the operation will hold her at arm's length, if she's allowed back into the club at all. And if it turns out that she did in fact play a part in the bombing, then we'll be releasing a terrorist, and you and your family will have one more enemy out there gunning for your lives."

My fingers are now laced so tightly between Kit's that by all rights, he should pull away. But he doesn't. He strokes his thumb against the back of my hand instead, tracing invisible circles into my skin, and slowly I loosen my grip. I don't let go, though, and neither does he.

"Even if she's innocent, this will follow her for the rest of her life," I say.

"Yes," agrees Singh. "Some marks never rub off completely."

"And everyone thinks Kit and I…that we're part of it, too," I add, and he studies me for a long moment.

"Yes," he says again, slower this time. "They do."

I glance up at Kit, and he peers down at me, his warm brown eyes searching mine. We don't speak—there's no need, not really, not when we both know what the other is thinking. But there's a question there, too, that neither of us is ready to ask. Or answer.

"Why don't I walk you both out?" says Singh. "My colleagues will see to Jenkins once he's ready."

This time it's Kit's hand that tightens around mine. But he doesn't shake his head, and at last, with my heart in my throat, I tear my eyes away from his.

"Okay," I say. And as Kit and I follow Singh through the soulless corridor, the brick-and-concrete fortress weighs heavier over us with each step we take, threatening to bury the last dregs of everything familiar to us both.