Chapter Four

"Henrietta, in your twenty years covering the royal family, have you ever seen a state banquet quite like this?"

"It was certainly one for the books, though I must emphasize that the press isn't invited to the banquet itself, or the ball afterward. We're only invited for photographs and the occasional short interview before the festivities begin. The rest is a closely guarded secret."

"Even with the excitement of President Park visiting the UK for the first time, I don't imagine anything that happened behind closed doors could possibly outshine Evangeline's faux pas during the family photograph yesterday."

"She does have a knack for drawing attention, doesn't she? In her defence, it seems like this was due to a wardrobe malfunction rather than any desire to steal the spotlight, as she removed her heels immediately after the photographs were taken."

"You've been spending quite a bit of time on the subject of Evangeline as of late, haven't you?"

"I have, yes. She's lived a fascinating life so far, especially for someone who's only eighteen, and it's been a pleasure to learn more about her in my research for my new book, Royal Rebel—which will be released on Thursday, just in time for a last-minute Christmas gift for all the royal watchers in your life."

"Well, I'll certainly be putting it on my list. What would you say most surprised you over the course of your research?"

"A number of things, really. Evangeline may be famous worldwide now, a mere six months after joining the royal family, but very little is known about her life beforehand. As you've said, she does have a knack for drawing attention in rather scandalous ways, but I'd say the thing that surprised me most was her empathy."

"Her empathy?"

"She has a reputation for misbehaving, of course, after getting expelled from nine boarding schools in seven years. But the acts that led to these expulsions never seemed to be rooted in malice or destructive tendencies."

"Even the infamous arson mishap that resulted in her fleeing to England?"

"Especially that. According to her former maths instructor, he believes Evangeline set the fire to destroy the only evidence of her roommate's poor marks—which reportedly risked her future Ivy League education."

"Her roommate's? Not her own?"

"No, not her own. That's really the heart of the many examples of what makes Evangeline such a fascinating addition to the royal family—and, I believe, an asset to this country going forward. She's truly remarkable, and despite the occasional blunder, I feel very strongly that once she's had the chance to prove herself, we'll all agree that she's as much a royal jewel as Princess Mary."

—ITV News's interview with royal expert Henrietta Smythe, 19 December 2023

THE DRIVE FROM WINDSOR CASTLE to Sandringham Estate, the privately owned country home of the royal family near the east coast of England, is almost three miserable hours long.

Maisie and I spend nearly every minute in silence, as I read a fantasy novel while she scrolls through her phone, hastily replying to every soft ding that echoes in the back of the Range Rover. I desperately want to ask if she's heard any news about Ben, but one look at the thundercloud that is her face, and I'm sure it isn't worth the risk. I might have made some less-than-stellar choices in my life, but even I know better than to test her right now.

I console myself with the fact that over the past five days, no sightings of Ben have been reported on social media, and no new rumors have surfaced about his supposed whereabouts. And while that doesn't mean he isn't still out there, it does, at least, imply that he's staying hidden. For now. And so, with the thought of an actual Christmas to look forward to, I focus on my book and do my best not to let Ben ruin this, too.

We're driving along a low stone wall that looks older than theUnited States when, for the first time in hours, Maisie looks up from her screen. Rather than say anything, however, she makes a strange sound that's halfway between a growl and a whistling teakettle, and she shoves her phone into her purse with such force that I'm surprised she doesn't throw it out the window instead.

"Everything okay?" I say mildly.

"Marvelous," she mutters, turning away from me to stare out at the bare trees. I consider leaving her be, since it's worked out well so far. But then, with as much stealth as possible when I'm sitting less than two feet away, her hand snakes up to brush her cheek, and I realize she's crying.

With a grimace, I close my book and slip it into the bag at my feet. "You don't have to tell me what's going on," I say. "But I'm here if you ever want to talk, all right?"

A muscle twitches in her jaw. "I'm fine," she says tightly, and I can hear the thickness in her voice now. "Have you checked Instagram recently?"

This is the last thing I expect her to say, and I frown. "Tibby handles that. I don't even have the password to my account."

"Of course you bloody don't," she mutters. "Thaddeus Park messaged me the other day."

"He did?" I say, suddenly dreading where this conversation is going. "I didn't know you two were friends."

"We're not." She finally looks at me, and although it's only for a split second, it's impossible not to notice how red her eyes are. "He asked for your number, and he wouldn't believe me when I said you haven't got a mobile."

I scowl. "Probably because he saw me using Tibby's. Did he say why he wanted it?"

"No, but it's not exactly hard to guess, is it?"

No, it's not. I lean my head back against the leather seat and sigh. I've never had a phone before—they weren't allowed at most of my boarding schools, and since my mother doesn't like using them, I've never seen the point—but this only reinforces my desire not to get one. "What else did he say?"

"The usual flattery and sycophancy," she says. "Though he's really not too terrible, all things consid—what on earth is goingon?"

She's leaning forward now, craning her neck in a direction I can't see. Frowning, I shift closer to her, the kind of close that would normally have her up in arms, but instead she barely seems to notice. And as the car slows, I see why.

Up ahead, clustered around large and extravagant wrought-iron gates, is a crowd of about a dozen people holding signs made of poster board. And even though the temperature is well above freezing, they're clad in winter coats and hats, and every single one has a scarf wrapped around the lower half of their face, leaving only their eyes visible.

Our car slows, and the crowd turns toward us, thrusting their signs in the air. They look homemade, with different handwriting and colors, but they all hold the same sentiment.

ABOLISH THE MONARCHY

NO MORE FREELOADING

REVOLT AGAINST THE ROYALS

Unnerved, I shrink away from Maisie and back into my seat. "Is this normal?" I say, trying to pretend like the hint of fear in my voice has always been there.

"No," says Maisie quietly, and in the front passenger seat, our protection officer speaks quietly on his phone, his head swiveling as he takes in the crowd.

"Additional security is on their way," he says, glancing overhis shoulder and through the clear partition at Maisie and me. But it's cold comfort as the protesters surround us, their mostly hidden faces inches from ours and separated only by glass.

None of them are shouting or hurling insults our way, though. They simply stare at us through the windows, and as the seconds tick by, I feel Maisie's hand wrap around mine.

"Don't look at them," she whispers. And even though everything in me wants—needs—to keep my eyes on the protesters, I tear my gaze away and focus on the back of our driver's head. He, too, is tense, and I notice that both men have unbuckled their seat belts.

Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably no more than a minute or two, the gates open, and several security officers join the fray, all holding batons. They hastily usher the crowd away from the car, and at last we continue forward. Before we make it to the safety of what must be Sandringham Estate, however, I glance out the window one more time, only to meet the menacing stare of a man in a teal scarf.

He doesn't speak—he doesn't even move—but that single look is enough, and a shiver runs down my spine. I hastily avert my eyes again, my fingers tightening around Maisie's. And even when we cross onto the private road and the gates swing shut, putting an ever-growing buffer between our Range Rover and the protesters, neither of us lets go.