Chapter Thirty-seven

Why has Evangeline Bright not been arrested? It's the question on everyone's mind, as the palace refuses to make a statement about her alleged ties to the terrorist organization known as the Army of the British Republic, which has claimed responsibility for the Modern Music Museum bombing that killed eight and grievously wounded His Majesty the King.

We certainly have the evidence. The pictures and video of Evangeline hugging friend Aoife Marsh, who was arrested at the scene of the attack and is a reported member of the Abr, have been confirmed as genuine. The leader of Abr himself has publicly thanked Evangeline for her help in the attempted assassination of her father, the King. And if that wasn't enough, with news breaking this morning of a fire at Windsor that reportedly targeted Princess Mary, palace insiders have revealed that accelerant was found in Evangeline's bedroom—and that the half sisters had fought the night before.

What more does MI5 need? The members of the royal family have long enjoyed a certain amount of privilege when it comes to bending the laws that the rest of us must follow, but we're not talking about a traffic ticket or a bit of light fraud. This is murder. This is terrorism. This is treason.

How many more people have to die before MI5 finally admits that the King's own daughter is responsible? How many more times must our beloved royal family fight for their lives before the senior courtiers stop using the palace's substantial power to protect a killer?

Evangeline Bright is a traitor—not only to her family, but to this country and its people. And we shudder to think of how many more tragedies we as a nation must face before she is finally brought to justice.

—The Regal Record,18 January 2024

AS THE RANGE ROVER RACES down the expressway toward London, Jenkins stares at Kit and me, his silence louder than any rebuke.

He's in the passenger seat, his upper body twisted in what must be an uncomfortable position, but even when we hit a bump, he refuses to budge. The seconds tick by slowly, and though I expect him to speak, he doesn't have to—the look on his face says everything, and I toy with the cap on my water bottle as I hold his incredulous gaze.

"I know it's reckless," I say. "I know there are risks—"

"This is more than a risk, Evan," he says, his voice so rough that he doesn't sound like himself. "This is…it's unthinkable."

I shrug. "He gave me an opening, Jenkins. I have to take it."

"No, you don't," he says with gentle firmness. "As long as I've known you, Evan, your first instinct is to right wrongs with wrongs. You'll do whatever it takes to fight a perceived injustice, even when it means getting expelled, or setting your classroom on fire, or risking your future—or, it seems, your life."

"This isn't a perceived injustice," I insist. "He's trying to kill us. Not just me, but Kit, my mom, Alexander—"

"I know, sweetheart," says Jenkins. "And we have the best people in the world doing everything they can to protect you."

"But it isn't enough," I argue. "He knows the royal family's security protocols too well, and he also knows the loopholes and how to exploit them. He's grown up in this life—he knows exactly how to get to us, and I need to prove it's him before it's too late."

Jenkins sighs. "Even if you're right, darling, there's absolutely no reason it has to be you."

I look at Kit, who's tight-lipped and staring at his hands. "I think it does, though," I say. "I think I'm the only one who has a chance of making this work."

Before either Jenkins or Kit can respond, my phone buzzes in my lap, and I automatically check the screen.

"It's Maisie," I say as I accept the call and put the phone to my ear. "Hey, we just left the prison. Aoife Marsh didn't know anything about Ben, but—"

"Evan?" The connection crackles, and Maisie's voice sounds oddly distant as a swell of noise fills the background of the call. "What's going on? The prime minister's insisting we evacuate to Balmoral, which is positively arctic this time of year. And Daddy's coming by air ambulance even though he's still critical, but no one will tell me why—"

"It's the Abr," I say. "MI5 are worried they've infiltrated the hospital and the palace staff. Talk to Agent Singh—he'll give you the details. But they're right, Maisie. You need to get out of London, okay?"

Maisie mutters a few choice words under her breath, mostly about Scottish winters. "Yes, all right, fine. But I certainly won't enjoy it. How far away are you? The helicopter's already landed on the lawn at Kensington, and Mummy's insisting we leave as soon as possible."

"I—" I hesitate and look at Jenkins, whose stony expression offers me nothing in return. "My mom's going with them, right?"

"What? Who are you talking to?" says Maisie, confused, but I'm still watching Jenkins. At last the corners of his mouth tug downward, and he exhales in a heavy sigh.

"I'll make sure your mother remains with His Majesty," he promises, and I nod, grateful.

"My mom's going to join you at Balmoral, Maisie," I say. "Will you look after her for me? Make sure she takes care of herself?"

Maisie huffs. "I know you and Mummy had a bit of a spat, but Balmoral is my castle, not hers, and if I have to be there, then you most certainly do, too."

"I'll join you when I can," I promise. "But not yet, Mais. I'm sorry."

"What are you talking about?" she says, the indignation in her voice rising. But I hear a hint of fear, too. "You're coming with us, Evan. That's the whole bloody point, isn't it? He's after you."

"While I'm gone," I say as if she hasn't spoken, "let him take my spot on the council."

"What?"she sputters. "Evan—"

"You need to keep him close, all right? Close and busy. Let him think he's won. Let him think you believe I started the fire. Let him think you hate me, and that he's back in your good graces, or at least on his way. Pretend I'm not invited to Balmoral, that Kit and I are both being investigated—"

"Kit's part of this madness, too?" she says furiously. "Let me speak to him—"

"I need you to do this for me, Maisie, okay?" I say, talking over her once more. "It's important. Keep him busy."

"I—" I can practically see Maisie opening and shutting her mouth. "Yes, all right, I'll keep him busy, but—"

"And don't let him anywhere near Dad," I say. "Not even for a moment, okay?"

"That we certainly agree on," she mutters. "Fine. I'll keep him busy, and I'll keep him away from Daddy—and your mother, naturally. But you must tell me what's going on."

My shoulders slump, and I lean forward, my seat belt cutting into my neck. "I'm going to fix this."

She scoffs. "That's alarmingly vague."

"I know. I'm sorry. Just—trust me, okay? Please. I love you."

"You—what?" says Maisie, and for a moment, her surprise overrides her fear. "Evan, what on earth—"

"I'll see you as soon as I can," I promise. "Stay safe. And don't trust anyone."

"Evan—Evan! Don't you dare—"

I hang up with her voice still ringing in my ears, and the silence in the vehicle is thick. Kit is watching me now, though his expression remains unreadable, and I desperately wish he'd say something. Even if it's not what I want to hear.

"I cannot condone this," says Jenkins, his words like steel as they cut through the quiet hum. "It's far too dangerous. If your father finds out—"

"Don't tell him," I say quickly. "Please. If—when he wakes up—"

"I cannot—I will not lie to my king," he says, and I hesitate, my mind a jumbled whirl.

"Then try to hold off on telling him for as long as possible," I say. "You don't have to lie, but just…buy me some time. Please."

Jenkins holds my pleading stare as the Range Rover veers toward an exit. He and I both know that this all might be a moot point—that Alexander might never wake up, and Jenkins will never have the chance to lie to him. Or tell him the truth.

But at last, his chin dips in the slightest of nods, and I reach forward, squeezing his fingers gratefully. "Thank you," I say, relieved. But Jenkins isn't looking at me anymore, and after a beat, he lets my hand go. Most people would hardly notice, but to me, it's a stab in the heart.

My throat tightens, and I force myself to push past the brief ache as I turn toward Kit. "You don't need to do this," I say. "I can figure it out on my own."

"I know you can," he says, his voice so low that he sounds hoarse. "But you won't have to."

My heart is thumping, and I don't know if it's from fear or nerves or excitement, or a potent combination of all three. "Are you sure?" I say, searching his face for any hint of reluctance or doubt.

But Kit takes my hand—the same one Jenkins dropped—and raises it to his lips, brushing them against my knuckles. "We're in this together," he says, his breath warm against my skin. "Let's finish it."

The cold rushes in as he lets me go, setting his palm on my knee instead, and I hold his gaze for several long seconds before picking up my phone once more. I dismiss another call from Maisie and open my contacts, where I have to scroll to find the right name. And as Jenkins speaks to the driver, grudgingly giving him our new destination, I type out my message.

We're in.