Chapter Five

Maisie

Gia, we need to talk.

Gia

I think you've said enough.

Maisie

You're taking this all entirely the wrong way, you know.

Gia

Am I? How good to know that yet again, you're in the right, and I'm simply misunderstanding Her Royal Highness's intentions.

Maisie

We've just arrived at Sandringham. Will you please answer your bloody mobile when I call?

Gia

I'm with my family.

Maisie

Please. There were protesters waiting for us, and security wasn't prepared. It was terrifying.

Gia

Are you all right?

Maisie

No. I'm shaking.

Gia

Are you hurt? Did they attack you?

Maisie

No, but I really need to hear your voice right now.

Gia

I told you, I'm with my family, and I need some time. We'll speak after Christmas.

Maisie

But that's days away.

Gia

I need time to think. If you care for me at all, please respect that.

Maisie

That's not fair and you know it.

Gia?

Gia, please.

Are you still coming to Klosters?

Gia

Only if you stop with this nonsense.

Maisie

I'm sorry.

Gia

I don't believe you.

Maisie

What do you want me to say? You know the position I'm in.

Gia

Of course I do. But you can't always be the priority, Maisie. Sometimes I get to be, too.

Maisie

You're always my priority.

Gia

Am I? Because I'm really not so sure.

—Text message exchange between Her Royal Highness the Princess Mary and Lady Georgiana Greyville, 23 December 2023

MY HEART IS STILL POUNDING by the time the car pulls up to the sprawling four-story mansion at the heart of Sandringham Estate. Under most circumstances, I'd be cracking a dry joke about Maisie's standard of living, or at the very least gawking at the warm brick-and-stone facade. But for now, it takes all I have to hide the tremble in my hands as I climb out of the Range Rover, grateful that my legs are still working.

"This is Sandringham House?" I say, trying to feign some semblance of normalcy even as my thoughts keep flashing back to the man in the teal scarf.

"Of course," says Maisie, whose phone is dinging again, and she barely looks up as she exits the vehicle. "What did you expect, a hovel?"

"A house," I say as I head for the double front doors, which stand open beneath an intricate stone awning. "I expected a house. Not—whatever this is."

"We're the royal family. We do not live in houses. Though I do hope Tibby packed your thermal underwear," adds Maisie, her eyes still glued to her phone as she breezes past me and into the entrance hall. "You can see your breath in the bedrooms at night."

Every detail of the foyer is exquisite, from the rich dark wood paneling to the polished marble floor and the festive garlands decorating the winding staircase, and despite the adrenaline still coursing through my system, I pause to drink it all in. It really is stunning, and I have absolutely no idea what Maisie's been complaining about for the past week.

In the middle of the hall, a stout man waits for us beside a strange brass contraption, and he bows as we approach. "Good afternoon, Your Royal Highness, Miss Bright. Welcome to Sandringham House."

"Thank you, Paul," says Maisie with surprising warmth. "I don't suppose you'll take a bribe this year, will you? I have…" She digs through her purse and pulls out half a dozen candy bars. "A Dairy Milk, a Flake, a Double Decker, a Mars bar, a peppermint Aero…"

"Your Royal Highness is too kind," says Paul with a hint of a smile. "But I fear that my honor remains unimpeachable."

"I was afraid of that," says Maisie with a sigh, and without explanation, she toes off her shoes, shoves her coat into my arms, and sits down on the odd apparatus. As I watch, baffled, Paul fiddles with a metal slide that almost looks like—

"Is that a scale?" I blurt, and as soon as I say it, I'm sure I'm right. Maisie rolls her eyes, but Paul glances at me with patient amusement.

"Indeed," he says as he nudges a few of the markers over. "The tradition of the weigh-in dates back over a century, to Edward VII, who believed that weight gain meant his guests had enjoyed themselves. Thank you, Your Royal Highness," he adds, and Maisie hops off. "Miss Bright, if you would."

I blink, horrified. "Wait—I'm supposed to do it, too?"

"If I have to, then you certainly do," says Maisie as she steps back into her shoes.

While Paul records her weight in a heavy leather-bound book, a maid appears at my side, and she takes Maisie's coat from my arms and waits for mine. I hesitate, but this isn't the only odd royal tradition I've come up against since joining the family, and I doubt it'll be the last.

Maisie disappears, her heels clicking on the marble floor as Paul carefully measures my weight. I consider asking what it is, but after months of having the media scrutinize everything about me, including my dress size and the circumference of my arms, I decide I don't want to know. As soon as he gives me the all clear, I jump down and shove my feet back in my Doc Martens, twisting around to figure out where Maisie went.

"Did you see—" I begin, but before I can finish my question, the front doors fly open, revealing an older woman with long silver hair, a fur coat, and a small brown-and-white spaniel trotting at her heels. I've only met her once, but I could pick her out of a crowd of thousands.

Queen Constance, Alexander's mother—and my grandmother.

For what feels like the longest moment of an already infinite day, she and I stand fifteen feet apart, staring at each other like opponents about to fight to the death. Or at least that's how she's staring at me. I'm mostly just trying to stop myself from biting the inside of my cheek so hard that I draw blood.

I haven't seen her—and have barely heard a word about her—since she retreated to Balmoral, the royal family's Scottish castle, the day after I arrived in England. For the first time in fifty years, she missed Trooping the Colour and other summer traditions so she could protest my invitation into the family. Never mind that I'm her flesh and blood, or that I'm as much her grandchild as Maisie is. Constance hates me so completely that I'm positive she would rather live the rest of her life as a commoner than say a single decent word to me.

Sure enough, as soon as the maid takes her coat, Constance walks past me as if I'm not even there, pausing only for the absolute minimum amount of time it takes Paul to weigh her. "Is Her Royal Highness here?" she says in a clipped voice.

"Yes, Your Majesty," says Paul as he once again adjusts the markers on the old-fashioned scale. "Her Majesty the Queen and His Royal Highness the Duke of York have also arrived. I believe they're enjoying the luncheon buffet in the dining room."

I keep my expression carefully neutral. Helene and Nicholas's affair isn't exactly a well-kept secret among the family, and no doubt the staff has known even longer, but I have no idea if Constance is aware that her daughter-in-law is sleeping with the wrong son—and has been for several years now, according to Alexander.

"Very well," says Constance, her voice impassive. With a sniff, she stands, not sparing me so much as a glance before disappearing through one of the large archways and into the corridor beyond. The dog lingers, staring up at me with liquid brown eyes, and I'm about to reach down and pet it when Constance's sharp voice cuts through the silence.

"Zaffre, come."

Reluctantly the dog trots off, and I watch it go, doing my best not to take Constance's continued rejection personally. But even after all these months, it's still a losing battle.

"I'm sure Her Majesty is very busy," says Paul kindly, and I tear my gaze away from the archway and force a small smile.

"Probably has a massive pile of Christmas presents to wrap," I agree, even though I'm sure Constance has never wrapped a gift in her life. "Where should I…?"

"The dining room is to the left, if you're hungry," says Paul. "We're only awaiting His Majesty now."

"Right," I say, my anxiety mounting. But then I realize the implication of what Paul's said, and hope sizzles through me likeelectricity. "Wait, does that mean Kit's here already? Lord Clarence, I mean—"

"I vastly prefer the first," says a low voice behind me, and I spin around so quickly that I nearly trip over my own feet.

There, standing at the bottom of the winding staircase, his smile warm and his dark wavy hair somehow even longer than it was during our last VidChat, is Kit.

I don't know which of us moves first, but two seconds later, his arms are around me, and my cheek is pressed to his shoulder as I hug him in return. He buries his face in my hair, his rib cage expanding beneath his soft sweater as he inhales, but there's something about the way he holds me that doesn't feel exactly right—something slightly desperate, maybe, with a hint of relief and fear.

The protesters at the gate—he must've passed them, too. I squeeze him a little tighter, hoping it's enough to reassure him that everything is fine. And as the seconds pass, the desperation fades, replaced by his usual calm and dependable demeanor.

"Missed you," I mumble, and when I tilt my head up, he's there, his nose a fraction of an inch from mine.

"I missed you, too," he says softly, for my ears only. And even though we're not alone, he brushes his lips against mine, and the nervous tension in my body melts away. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving," I admit, though I don't mention it's because I was too nervous to eat breakfast. I kiss him again before reluctantly letting him go. "But I think Constance already claimed the dining room."

Kit takes my hand, his fingers lacing through mine. "The dining room is big enough for both of you," he assures me. "If Her Majesty wants to avoid you, then she ought to be the one going out of her way, not you."

As we pass out of the entrance hall, I offer Paul a smile and a wave. To my surprise, he bows his head in return, and while it's a small gesture—and definitely something no one else in the family would notice—my cheeks grow warm with both gratitude and embarrassment.

On our meandering way to the dining room, Kit gives me the grand tour of the main floor, and we pause in each new space as I take it all in. Sandringham House isn't as ostentatious as Windsor Castle or Buckingham Palace, but it doesn't skimp on the finery, either. Or the fireplaces, or the crown molding, or the heraldry that seems to be everywhere, especially in a room Kit calls the saloon.

"Alexander usually invites the cousins here for Christmas," says Kit, his voice lower than usual as we explore a sizable white drawing room with a painting of a sky on the ceiling. "This year, however, it'll just be the immediate family."

"That'll be a barrel of laughs," I mutter. I've never met any of the other members of the royal family—the list of names that extends seemingly endlessly in the line of succession after Ben—but it would've been nice to have a few decoys to throw in front of Constance if she gets snippy.

"It won't be so bad," Kit assures me. "There are plenty of places to disappear if Constance or Aunt Helene step out of line."

"It's not just them I'm worried about," I say darkly, and he smirks.

"Ah, yes. Maisie's been in a mood lately, hasn't she?"

"Tell me about it," I say, relieved I'm not the only person who's noticed. "The drive up here was miserable. I think she's fighting with Gia."

"They have their spats," he says with a shrug. "Though they tend to make up fairly quickly."

"I think this one's worse than usual," I admit. "Has Rosie said anything?"

"Rosie?" he says, and I give him a pointed look.

"Don't pretend she doesn't text you practically every day. I know she likes you."

Kit looks sheepish, even though her crush is entirely one-sided. "It's not every day," he insists. "But it is whenever she can think of a good excuse. No, she hasn't said anything—and she would, if she knew something was going on."

We head down a long hallway now, and I catch a whiff of beef and gravy and fresh-baked bread. My stomach gurgles, but even hunger can't make my feet move any faster toward the inevitable cold war in the dining room. Kit doesn't seem especially eager to arrive, either, and I peer up at him, searching his grim expression for an explanation I know won't be there.

"Are you okay?" I say, and he blinks, as if I've snapped him out of a trance.

"Better than okay," he promises, ducking his head to kiss me again. "I haven't been this happy in months."

He doesn't look happy, though, not with the way his brow is slightly furrowed and his eyes look like they're in shadow. I hug his arm, but before I can press, Constance's sharp voice filters through a set of open double doors just down the corridor.

"…stop this foolishness at once." Somehow she sounds even more deadly than she looked in the entrance hall, and I fight the urge to drag Kit back the way we came. "I've no idea what you two expect will come of this. Certainly nothing good."

"I don't see how it's any of your business, Mother." Nicholas's voice isn't nearly as loud, but it's steady and unwavering, and it's clear this isn't the first time my uncle's had to deal with her demands.

"I'm the head of this family," she snaps. "That makes it entirely my business."

Kit and I stop at the doorway in time to see Helene's eyebrows rise so high they nearly touch her hairline. Though she and Nicholas are the only people seated at the long mahogany table, which is laden with crystal glasses, fine china, and festive decorations, the pair of them are practically perched on each other's laps. Constance stands stiffly near one of the windows, and I'm suddenly positive that she walked in on a scene she wasn't prepared for. Because she didn't know about their affair.

"On the contrary," says Helene, her voice as cool as the icy-blue walls, "Alexander is the head of this family now. And he's perfectly content with the situation."

Constance scoffs. "Alexander is the reason public opinion of the monarchy has plummeted, with the consequences of his actions still ricocheting through the headlines. He's already made us a laughingstock, and this"—she gestures toward Helene and Nicholas—"this will only further ensure our demise—"

"Demise, Mother?" says someone new over my shoulder. "Isn't that a trifle dramatic?"

I recognize my father's voice instantly, but when I twist around, I freeze, my heart in my throat. Lingering behind me in a cozy red sweater is Alexander, looking more relaxed than I've seen him in months. But he's not alone.

Standing to his right in the hallway, her auburn curls loose and her cheeks still pink from the December chill, is my mother.