Chapter Six

The past cannot be cured.

—Queen Elizabeth (b. 1533, r. 1558–1603)

MY MOM IS HERE.

In England.

At Sandringham.

For Christmas.

These are the only coherent words my mind can form as I launch myself toward her, and she catches me in a tight hug. She feels stronger than the last time I saw her back in June, and I inhale her scent, my thoughts reeling.

My mom is here. In England. At Sandringham. For Christmas.

And so are Constance and Helene.

A knot of fear forms in the pit of my stomach, and I pull away enough to look at her. "What are you doing here?" I manage, my voice already ragged. "I thought you were staying in Virginia."

"We wanted to surprise you, Evie," she says, but she must sense my apprehension, because she peers at me uncertainly. "It's a good surprise, right?"

"The best," I say, and it is. I haven't spent Christmas with her since I was ten years old. But I can feel the white-hot stares watching us from the dining room, and all I can think about is how everyone at Sandringham knows the darkest details of the worst day of her life. And I'm absolutely sure some of them won't hesitate to use them against her.

"Ah, the epitome of propriety has arrived at last," says Helene from her seat at the table. "And I see he's brought a guest."

My mother releases me and turns her attention to the dining room, though her hand settles on my back, as if she isn't entirely ready to let go. While Helene looks impossibly smug as she leans even closer to Nicholas, Constance stands frozen beside the velvet curtains, seemingly rendered speechless by Alexander's audacity. That, at least, is one thing we have in common.

"Hello, Helene," says my mother as she steps into the room with my father at her side, both of them either oblivious to Constance or pointedly ignoring her. "It's good to see you."

"Likewise," says Helene, her honeyed voice oozing with insincerity. "You look well, Laura."

She fixes her blue eyes on my mother, and a shiver runs down my spine. My mom shouldn't be here. She shouldn't have to face Helene, who's the reason everyone in the world knows about her mental illness and the psychotic break that permanently altered our lives when I was four. My mother shouldn't have to be polite to a woman who's never shown her an ounce of compassion or empathy, and who sure as shit won't start now.

But my mom is a better human being than I'll ever be, and she smiles with warmth Helene doesn't deserve. "I am well, thank you," she says. "It's good to be back in England. Nicholas—you've grown up, haven't you?"

"It happens from time to time," says my uncle, and though he sounds genuinely friendly, he at least has the decency to look abashed. Good. While Helene was the one to tell the press about my mother's arrest and mental illness, all the details came straight from Nicholas—including the part about the bathtub.

But either my mom doesn't know or she doesn't hold grudges like Alexander and I do, and she flashes him a wide smile. "Alex told me you two are living together now," she says. "I'm thrilled for you."

Nicholas smiles self-consciously, and his arm tightens around Helene. "Thank you," he says. "All on the quiet, of course, but we're very hap—"

"You've brought her here? For Christmas?"

All at once, Constance seems to reanimate from her spot beside the window, and she fixes her livid stare on my father. Feeling like I've swallowed a lump of searing-cold metal, I tuck myself underneath my mom's arm, as if I can somehow shield her from whatever metaphorical daggers my grandmother is about to throw.

"Hello, Mother," says Alexander. "How lovely to finally see you again. No doubt you remember Laura."

Remember?I glance at my mom, who looks completely unfazed. In my mind, she and my royal relatives exist in two different worlds, completely separate from each other except for the bridge that is me and Alexander. But now that I'm standing here, face to face with the familiarity and contempt between the members of my unorthodox family, it's suddenly clear that the Venn diagram I've been picturing is much, much closer to a circle.

"Were you not content ruining my last Christmas with my late husband?" says Constance, every inch of her dripping with disdain as she glares at my mother. "Did you come to ruin this one, too?"

"If memory serves," says Alexander smoothly, "the tantrum you threw about hosting Laura—who, if you'll recall, was my fiancée at the time—was the reason Father was in a foul mood. He was pleased to welcome her into the family."

"Until you informed him that you intended on abdicating in order to marry your American harlot," snaps Constance. "That certainly put a dampener on the festivities, didn't it?"

"Only for you and Father," says Alexander, and he turns toward the long buffet set up against the wall. "Laura, you must be starving after your flight."

He picks up two plates, but Constance clearly isn't done with this conversation, and she steps closer to the table, her fingers curling around the back of an intricately carved chair.

"Will you and your guest be sharing a room again, then?" she says, her voice tight with barely contained spite. "Never mind that you're a married man."

"Helene and I are legally separated, Mother, as you damn well know," says Alexander with a hint of weariness now. "Must you make this difficult? Laura hasn't had the opportunity to celebrate Christmas with Evan in a very long time, and—"

"Which reminds me," interrupts Constance, as if an idea's just occurred to her. "Perhaps you'd prefer to use one of the other rooms this year, given the…amenities in your en suite."

Almost everyone in the room freezes at that—even Helene, whose wineglass is halfway to her lips. Only Kit and I glance at each other, both silently asking for an explanation. But I've never been here before, and Kit, no doubt, has never had a reason to explore my father's bathroom.

Oh.

Oh.

Rage washes over me, burning away my confusion until only cold clarity remains. I don't know exactly what Constance is talking about, but I recognize the shape of her verbal swipe—the insinuation that my mom can't be trusted anywhere near a bathtub without risking another incident. And just as Kit's hand touches my elbow, I slide away from him and toward the table, planting myself directly across from Constance.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" I say easily, even though my blood's boiling. "The day after I arrived at Windsor, before the investiture ceremony. I'm pretty sure I was wearing pajamas."

Constance simply stares at me, her expression turning to stone.

"You don't?" I say, keeping my voice casual. "Because I do. I remember every word you said to me. It's not every day my own grandma calls me a mangy stray at a dog show."

Behind me, I hear my mom inhale sharply, and Alexander sputters. "Mother?" he says, like Constance would ever confirm it to his face, but I keep going.

"You also said I was a mistake." I glance at Helene, who was the real wordsmith there. "One that should've been corrected in the womb. You're sure you don't remember?"

Silence. Kit's beside me again, solid and warm and no longer trying to stop me, and I feel my mother's hand on my shoulder, but I don't know her touch well enough to figure out what she's trying to say.

"Does anyone know the name of the reporter who wrote that unofficial biography of me?" I ask. "Henrietta something?"

"Henrietta Smythe," says Alexander, sounding only slightly strained. "She was a member of the Royal Rota for two decades."

"Right. Henrietta Smythe." I'm still holding Constance's clear blue gaze, and neither of us blinks. "Isn't there a chapter in the book about the day I arrived in England, and the twenty-four hours before my identity became public?"

To my surprise, it's Kit who replies. "There is," he says. "Though it's almost entirely fictionalized."

I tilt my head. "I know the book's already published, but do you think Henrietta Smythe might be interested in what really happened? For future editions, I mean."

"The royal family doesn't speak directly to our unofficial biographers," says Alexander, his voice stronger now. "It offers too much legitimacy to their occasionally extraordinary claims. But I'm certain we could arrange for a proxy to contact her, if you're serious. We've certainly done such things in the past."

Constance's flinty expression doesn't budge, but I can see the wrath in her eyes—the acknowledgment of my very real threat. And I know she knows I'm deadly serious.

"I'll think about it," I say at last. "Decide after the holidays."

"Of course," says Alexander. "We'll discuss it in the new year. Mother, have you eaten? Dinner won't be served until eight o'clock, and—"

Constance whirls around, and without another word, she marches out of the dining room in a cloud of cashmere and contempt, her adorable spaniel trotting once again at her heels.

No one says anything for several long seconds, until the silence grows so heavy and awkward that it becomes unbearable. Both my father and Nicholas appear vaguely amused, while Helene finally takes that sip of her wine. But my mother looks…lost, maybe. Guarded, like Constance's blow landed, and she knows she has to protect herself from any further attacks. The rage returns, bubbling up inside me like lava, but just as I'm about to blurt out something to break the tension, Kit takes a single step toward my mother.

"Ms. Bright," he says warmly, as if the entire encounter with Constance never happened—as if the only strange part about this is the fact that he and my mother have never been introduced. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"You must be Kit," she says, her wariness slowly fading. "You're even more handsome in person."

"And I can see where Evan gets her looks," says Kit, his cheeks pink. But as they slip into a comfortable exchange of pleasantries, Alexander takes my elbow, guiding me toward the buffet.

"Where is your sister?" he says as he starts to fill a plate, and I shrug.

"She ran off as soon as we got here."

"Right," he says with a hint of disappointment. "I suppose we'll do introductions later, then. Did you two pass by the, er…incident at the gate?"

"You mean the weirdly quiet protesters looking for any excuse to pull out a guillotine?" I say. "Yeah, we saw them. Why is my mom here?"

I lower my voice so it carries only between the two of us, and I can tell from the way Alexander's expression grows pinched that he understands exactly why I'm asking.

"Because she wants to be here," he says softly while he helps himself to the potatoes. "Because we would both like to spend Christmas together, as a family."

"They're going to eat her alive," I whisper. "That thing with Constance and the bathtub—"

"It will not happen again," says Alexander, moving on to the roasted chicken. "I promise. You've nothing to worry about, Evie—just relax and try to enjoy yourself, all right? You deserveit."

What I deserve is to know my mother is safe, both mentally and physically, but before I can spit that out between gritted teeth, Alexander heads back to her and hands her the plate. "Your favorites, if I recall. Let's sit, shall we?"

I remain beside the buffet as I watch them choose seats much too close to Helene and Nicholas, my jaw clenched so tightly that it aches. Kit joins me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders, and I lean into him.

"Would you like to go to the shops later?" he murmurs. "I need to buy your mum a gift."

This is obviously an attempt to distract me, but even though the idea of leaving my mother here makes me feel vaguely nauseated, he has a point. I have no idea if she received the present Isent to Virginia, and I can't stand the thought of her not having anything to open under the tree on Christmas. "Depends on whether Constance is on her way back to Balmoral yet," Imutter.

"Unlikely," he admits. "But your mum will be all right for a little while, Ev. Alexander has everything under control, and regardless of their verbal barbs, Constance and my aunt aren't ones to get their hands dirty."

"Maybe not," I say darkly. "But I am."

Kit presses a quick kiss to my temple, and despite my stewing, despite the omnipresent tension in the room and his grim mood, I swear I see him smirk.