The Queen’s Spade

Twenty

Twenty

“Oh, Sally, thank you for inviting me to the gala!” Gowramma and I clinked our wineglasses inside the private gallery. The

Victoria and Albert Museum was packed full of society’s elite, and why shouldn’t it be? This event had been advertised for

months. A gala funded by the Photographic Society of London. A joint exhibit featuring the works of all of their most prominent

artists. It would make a fine stage.

The greater the stage, the better the show.

Gowramma grabbed my free hand with hers and drew it up to her nose.

“Are you... okay?” I asked, eyebrows raised as she sniffed it.

“What lovely perfume.” She sniffed again before letting me go and rubbing her chin. “Is that lilac?”

“Are you drunk?”

“I’m getting there!” She raised her glass and took me by the crook of my elbow. Not much got past Gowramma even when she was

tipsy. I supposed I should have washed my hands a little more before coming to the event. Hopefully no one else would notice.

The late-afternoon sun streamed in from the second-story windows. A beautifully crafted mahogany banister curved in luxurious arches, separating the second floor from the open space below. Those on the walkway above could look down and see us below in this vast marble-floored room. Pinned to the walls were the photographs in this exhibit, framed in gold that sparkled from the light of the chandelier hanging down from the ceiling’s round, white clay medallion. Wooden podiums were strewn about the spacious room, on which smaller photographs were placed behind glass placards that had been screwed into the structures.

All around me were photographs of Queen Victoria with her family in happier days, back when the Queen still had the desire

to be seen out in public at events such as these. I could see Princess Mary Adelaide of Cambridge, a robust woman, and next

to her the deceased Prince Albert. But the crowning pieces of the exhibit were covered by red velvet curtains. At the front-most

wall in the center of the room, the billowy curtains attracted all eyes. Guests talked in low voices, everyone wondering what

lay behind them.

I couldn’t wait to show them.

Gowramma nudged me and pointed at a picture to my left. “Those were taken by Camille Silvy. A Frenchman, I believe.”

“And part of the Royal Photographic Society.” I could see other works of his here. A portrait of a French river. A couple

of musicians on the street with their guitars next to grand black iron gates. Silvy was here, clinking drinks with Henry White,

a landscape photographer.

I had to strain to find him—there were too many bodies amongst the crowd. Too many ruffled hoop skirts of every color and

top hats of varying ridiculous sizes. But eventually I did see him: William Bambridge stood near the opposite wall. He threw

his head back as he chatted with his mates, entirely unsuspecting of what was about to occur.

“I think I see you over there,” I told Gowramma, pointing in Bambridge’s direction, where a photographic portrait of her that had been taken when she was a child hung on the wall. I dragged her through the crowd until we reached it. Indeed, there she was in a white dress, mirthless, with her hands rigidly on her lap and one foot on a cushion, the other dangling behind it. Her figure, at least, popped against the simple black backdrop as she stared into the camera.

“God, I look miserable,” she said, shaking her head and drinking her wine. “And look at my hair!”

In the portrait, the strands of her hair fell flat and limp on her head and were parted into two down the middle like all

of us girls.

“Were you miserable?” I asked her, giving her a sidelong look while watching Bambridge, just a few steps away, out of the

corner of my eye.

She thought about it for a moment. “I... I don’t remember,” she whispered. Whether she remembered or not, it seemed to

genuinely bother her. “I do remember how particular my father was in how I behaved even before I came here.”

“The Rajah?”

“He made sure I adopted the habits of the English. He was always so frantic about it. Why?” She paused, staring at the portrait

of herself. “Why was he always so frantic about it?”

I watched her carefully, curiously, tighten up her jaw as William Bambridge finally noticed the two of us and couldn’t resist.

“Sally Forbes Bonetta. What a pleasant surprise. And Princess Victoria Gowramma! Well, isn’t this, as your people say, kismet ?”

“That’s an Arabic word, so no, we don’t say that,” Gowramma grumbled. I raised my eyebrows. I wasn’t used to such defiance

in her voice. It was sudden. New to me. But William Bambridge didn’t hear her as he clapped us both on our shoulders and laughed.

Yes, for him, it must have been fate of some kind. Photographers worldwide had wanted a chance to capture the likeness of the “savage” wards adopted into the royal family. Such a curious phenomenon unique to Queen Victoria. How had they managed to turn these creatures of the so-called dark places of the world into perfect members of British society—integrated into the royal family, no less? It was a task William Bambridge has been praised for far and wide since the moment Queen Victoria had given him the go-ahead to terrorize me during his photographic shoot.

“Roger! Roger, come, look at this! Look at these two!”

I wondered how much Gowramma really remembered. Something sparked behind those vibrant brown eyes as Roger Fenton joined Bambridge.

Our two childhood photographers stared at us as if we were animals in a zoo.

“Gowramma, it’s been so long.” His eyes were large. Or at least, they felt large. They felt as if they swallowed up his whole

body as he drank in the sight of us wards. “How is your husband? Surely, you came with him?”

“Yes.” Gowramma was oddly quiet, her gaze on the marble floor. “He’s here somewhere.”

As a married woman, it would have been almost unthinkable for her to come to an event such as this without him. To bring Gowramma

here, I needed his permission. It wasn’t part of any scheme. I only supposed she needed time away from home, away from the

loose bowel movements of both her charges—baby and husband alike. And since at the moment Bertie wasn’t throwing any secret

illicit parties she could sneak off to...

“Who knew the Indian girl in this photograph would end up doing so well for herself, eh, Fenton?” said Bambridge. “And Sally.

I remember the day I photographed you in the palace. You were so vibrant and modest. So good-natured and—”

“Malleable?” It was a word I know they all liked. I gave him a pleasant smile.

“Yes. And well-behaved.” He nodded to Fenton, who nodded back, both of them not even bothering to hide the pride they took—not in us, mind you. In their work. “I know your likeness, captured by me, will endure for centuries.”

So will my trauma. My smile grew languid as I remembered the Egbado beads ripping from my neck.

“ Well-behaved truly is the word. It’s wonderful how docile Gowramma was.”

“Yes, yes! Such a surprise! I thought they’d be wild...”

They continued on like that. The way he and Fenton spoke to each other felt as if they were in a world all their own that

excluded us in some deep, foundational way that felt wrong. We were here, but as subjects. As still as photographs hanging

in the exhibit.

“They’ve both become true Victorian ladies, by my estimation.” It wasn’t Fenton who’d answered. The Prince of Wales had found

us, splitting the crowds as he approached. Fenton and Bambridge bowed.

“Your Royal Majesty! You were able to make it!” Bambridge rubbed his hands together. I thought he’d lick his lips soon. “I’m

honored. And your mother, the Queen? Will Her Royal Highness be making an appearance?”

Whatever effect their flattery had had on him disappeared in an instant at the mere mention of the Queen. Bertie, dressed

all in black and white like proper Victorian gentleman, including his bow tie, took off his top hat and tucked it underneath

his armpit.

“No, she will not.” His gold-brown hair was slicked back with gel. I could see the lump in his throat fight its way down as

he swallowed. “I’m here representing her. I’m to unveil the photographic piece of the night.” He gestured to the red curtains

on the front wall. “Shipped in from America. Robert Cornelius... or some such.”

He probably didn’t ask nor did he follow up to check the pieces one last time before the event began. How like Bertie to be

so sloppy. He would come to regret it.

“Ah, yes. How unfortunate Her Majesty couldn’t be here. The Queen hasn’t really been the same since the Prince Consort’s passing,” Bambridge said.

He would certainly know. I stifled a snicker as my thoughts roamed to the darkroom of his studio.

Bambridge was one of those in elite society who knew how to feign sympathy so well it no longer fooled anyone. The attempt

only left the target with a feeling of slight annoyance and the taste of hypocrisy. Bertie’s lips began to curl into a snarl

until he stopped himself.

Bertie had dealt with Bambridge for much of his life, and from the looks of his grimace, his experiences were nothing to cheer.

He turned to Gowramma and me instead.

“Victorian ladies indeed,” Bertie said, mirth creeping back into his voice. “You both look astounding.” He perked up as his

eyes lingered on me. “Especially you, Sally. Dare I say, you look a vision?”

I looked no more frivolous than anyone else here, though I had to admit, mustard-seed yellow was my color. It was the perfect

contrast to my skin. I almost didn’t mind that the heavy layered skirt swept the dust off the floors.

“Alas, not everyone in this city can meet the standards of civil society,” Roger Fenton said. “My assistant, Mr. Sparling,

has been the target of a theft.”

I covered my mouth with the rest of them. Ever so surprised.

“Theft?” Bambridge’s bushy eyebrows furrowed together. “Not Marcus!”

“Unfortunately.” Fenton shook his head. “Some of his photographs have gone missing recently—and all before he could even show

them to his clients. It’s why he didn’t come today.”

“I’m sure he’s beside himself with worry,” I said, my gloved hand still covering my mouth. In these moments, it was probably more prudent for me to stay silent, but it was hard not to inject yourself into a scene of such comedy.

Fenton bristled with righteous indignation. “There are too many scoundrels infesting the city streets these days. They have

no regard for morals and rationality.”

He sounded like Henry Mayhew railing about the “nomadic races of England” as if they were like we “pagans” in need of proper

religion. I wonder if tonight’s surprise would be enough to challenge Fenton’s prejudices. Probably not. But it would be of

great fun to me nonetheless.

Bertie rolled his eyes, clearly bored of the conversation. “Fascinating. Anyways—” And he held out his hand to me. Gowramma

gasped. “Would you accompany me somewhere, Sally?”

He must have seen my unimpressed expression, because he straightened up and looked at the other spectators with a blush on

his cheeks. Bambridge and Fenton exchanged glances, thoroughly confused.

“Would you both come with me?” he corrected himself, offering his elbow to Gowramma. “There’s something I think you both should

see.”

But his eyes were pleading with me. I sighed. What in the world did he want with me now? And in front of all these people?

Gowramma’s grin was a little devilish, a little knowing, as if she’d suddenly become aware of some secret but had decided

to guard it as churlishly as a troll his gold. Great. I shook my head.

“Yes, Gowramma and I would be honored,” I answered. After curtsying to Bambridge and Fenton, I took Bertie’s other arm and

followed him to another part of the gala, ignoring the onlookers and their whispers. Bertie didn’t have to care about any

implications. At least, he certainly didn’t have the intelligence to care. Gowramma on his other arm softened the blow of

the gossip, but I was still annoyed as we made our way through the crowd.

My irritation didn’t stem from Bertie alone. For me this wasn’t a social event. Each second that passed, I kept an eye out for Harriet, who was to have been here by now.

Bertie stopped when we came across a photographic portrait I knew all too well. My shoulders slumped. I turned away.

“There you are, Sally.” With her arm linked with Bertie’s, Gowramma leaned over.

Yes, there I was, rimmed in gold. Empty and lifeless. Some said it was the way photographs were taken. It was the style of

the mid-1800s to look dead-eyed at the camera.

But no. Those dead eyes were as real, as honest as my own heart beating furiously against my rib cage. They were not the result

of Bambridge’s direction. They were the genuine item.

Gowramma looked down for a moment and touched her throat. “Strange,” she said. “I’m not feeling so well.”

Her face did suddenly have an ashen look to it. She touched her stomach. “Something I ate, perhaps.”

Gowramma already confided in me that her sex life with her aging husband was by now nonexistent, so I knew she wasn’t pregnant.

If I were to hazard a guess, it was this gala. The sickness in her was the same nausea I felt from deep within my core.

Someone who has never had to worry about being looked at could never understand the disembodied experience of being the star of a show you never wished for... especially when

that “stardom” came at the expense of your very self.

But this phenomenon was hard to put into words.

Gowramma didn’t try. She cleared her throat. “I think I’ll go see what my husband’s up to,” she said, pulling her arm out

of Bertie’s grip. “Sally, I think yours is around here somewhere. If I were you, I’d do the same.” She winked at me before

leaving Bertie and me to stare up at my likeness framed in gold.

Once she was gone, I pulled my arm out of his as well and wrapped both around my chest. Sarah Forbes Bonetta loomed over me like a vicious tyrant after my very life. I didn’t want to be this close to his portrait. I took in a deep breath to calm my nerves.

“Husband,” Bertie grumbled once she was out of earshot. He repeated the word as if he swore. “You don’t need to find him,

Sally. Last I saw he was in another room having quite the vibrant conversation with Camille Silvy.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Silvy? The photographer. Why?”

“How should I know?”

The two of us fell silent. I hadn’t even thought to find out if Captain Davies would be here. I was focused on other things.

Now that he was, I hated that a part of me questioned if I had an obligation to see him. To speak to him.

I shook my head. No, those were the rules talking. That was Mama Schoen talking. I didn’t owe anyone anything. There was only

one man I wanted to see today, and until Harriet made her appearance and gave me the signal, I couldn’t be sure if he would

even show up.

“Mother’s been good to you, you know,” Bertie said, combing his fingers through his hair, ruining the careful coif. He gestured

toward the picture. “Adopting you into our family. Giving you all these things. It was quite surprising to me when I first

found out.”

“As I remember, you treated me like you treated everyone else: with the carelessness and nigh disdain of an heir to the throne.”

He clenched his jaw. “I did not .”

“You dumped honey on my hair.”

Bertie cowered beneath the weight of my glare. Oh, yes, Albert. I remembered.

“D-Did I?”

I stepped closer to him, lifting my chin so my aforementioned glare could bore into his skull. “You said it wasn’t silky or sweet like yours.”

Bertie coughed out a nervous chuckle and ruffled his own hair. “Nothing silky about this mess now, is there?”

A few women nearby tittered behind their fans. I rolled my eyes. He truly didn’t get it.

“You forgive me, don’t you, Sally?”

One more step toward him. I tilted my head with the sweetest of expressions. “No.”

I brushed past his shoulder while striding down the wall of portraits. Harriet had to be around here somewhere.

Bertie followed. “Oh, come on, now. Sally!”

I wish he wouldn’t. Being Queen Victoria’s adopted African goddaughter made unwanted attention a frequent occurrence at these

events. I didn’t need Bertie drawing even more curiosity my way. But the prince, as usual, didn’t have a clue. He grabbed

my wrist rather roughly, letting go of me almost immediately when he realized he’d gotten a bit too heated.

“Isn’t there anything you’ve come to like while being at the palace?”

I purposefully kept silent, thinking back to my experiences. The snow underneath my brown leather boots the first winter I

spent at Balmoral Palace in Scotland. How some attendant explained to me the process of how water became snow, as if I didn’t

already know. Watching the snow melt in my cold little hands, and seeing Ade’s face in the water that had pooled there. The

striking fear of what might happen to me should I let my tears fall in front of them when I was supposed to be grateful.

Bertie sighed. “I don’t blame you, I suppose. Not much to like about the royal life, is there? Even for me?”

I already knew of the royal life. My royal life, when I was princess of my clan. But bringing that up would only confuse the lout. “What are you going on about?”

I muttered, shaking my head and continuing to the next pictures. And he followed me still .

“I’m sure you felt trapped the moment you came here. Am I right? Like the walls were closing in.” He trailed me, close behind.

Yes. Though I doubted he could ever understand why.

“Nobody thought I was worthy of being an heir from the moment I started talking. Nothing I do is ever worthy. I’m not studious

like Vicky. Not responsible enough for the throne. Not according to my father. And especially my mother...”

He trailed off and it took me a moment to realize he’d stopped behind me. When I turned, I saw he was staring at Camille Silvy’s

portrait of his father, Prince Albert. Prince Consort: a confident pose, a bend in the right knee, a suit fit for royalty.

His figure was more portly than the miniature sculpture of Venus de Milo on the table next to him. The globe at his feet made

him look worldly and intelligent. He’d hoped his son, his namesake, would have the same excitement for knowledge and innovation.

What he got instead was the Party Prince and a number of complaints from his tutors and military officers.

“The last conversation I had with my father... ,” Bertie began, and didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. We all knew his father

had been lecturing him in the rain about his love for actresses and the scandals it could cause. He soon fell ill and died.

The stress, his mother insisted. If only Bertie hadn’t given him so much stress.

“I told my mother I’d be coming here in her stead. She wouldn’t even look at me.” Bertie tore his gaze from his father and

turned to me. “Sally, it’s not easy being here. If you feel that way, I understand. Even still—” He grabbed my wrist lightly

with a tenderness unbecoming to him. “You need to appreciate the freedom you have.”

I slowly frowned. “Freedom?”

“You can’t possibly know how it feels to be in that mausoleum-like palace day after day knowing no one there takes you seriously. It’s the worst of all feelings. And I have no one who understands me. No one I can commiserate with.” He shook his head, his hair, now loose, fluttering back and forth. “It’s hell,” he whispered. “It’s—”

My laughter cut off whatever stupid thing Bertie was going to say next. His face reddened as he reached out to calm me down—at

least if I was to laugh I shouldn’t be so loud. People were watching. But I couldn’t help it. It was just the stupidest thing

I’d ever heard.

“Sally—” He pouted, turning his back to the crowd, folding his arms. “Well, glad to know how you feel about my trauma.”

“Oh, Bertie, you know I’ve never taken you seriously.” I slapped him on the back like an old schoolmate. “But if you want

people to take you seriously, perhaps you should take a closer look at the people around you and see how you can use that

incredible power you wield quite by accident to actually help them. Like the slums your royal carriage passed by on your way

to the grand museum named after your parents. The people who can barely find food to eat.”

Bertie shifted uncomfortably on his feet, embarrassed, probably, that he couldn’t refute what was obvious.

“Or the people around you who are more trapped than you could ever imagine.” I tugged up my long yellow gloves, in danger

of falling past my elbows. “Take a closer look at them once in a while too. You may gain another perspective on the life you

lead.”

Bertie studied me for some time. And when I began to move away from him, he grabbed my shoulder. “Do you feel trapped, Sally?” he asked suddenly, in a quiet voice. No one else could hear him. “By your marriage? By Captain Davies?”

Who was he to ask? What was he playing at? Sympathy? With a huff, I answered his question with deflection.

“Worry less about my company and more about yours. I hear you’ve been making friends with that boy from Freetown: Dalton Sass.”

Bertie scratched the back of his head. “Oh, Sass? He’s a good lad. Wealthy. He’s joined me at a club or two. Always good for a laugh.”

Well, as long as you were good fun at a club or two, and could keep your mouth shut, you’d cleared Bertie’s benchmark for

friendship. I let out an impatient groan.

“What are you worried about there, Sally?”

Far too much. I started to protest, but just then Harriet appeared amidst the crowd. She didn’t come near me. She wasn’t supposed

to. But when she winked, I knew, from her signal, that my special show was about to begin. Sass would have to wait. Any good

host knew that an event wasn’t an event until the entertainment arrived.

“Isn’t it time for you to unveil Robert Cornelius’s photographs?” I gestured toward the red velvet curtains.

With a heavy sigh, Bertie rubbed the back of his head. “Yes, I suppose so.”

Before he left, I touched his shoulder and smiled. “And for the record,” I told him, “about my predicament, whether I feel

trapped or not, dear Bertie, Captain Davies is my betrothed. There’s nothing I can do but obey my fate.”

Bertie didn’t look pleased at my response. Little did he know.

There was no such thing as fate.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” As the prince spoke, everyone quieted down, lowered their drinks, and watched him. “Thank you for

coming. It is now my honor to unveil the pièce de résistance of tonight’s gala, generously donated by—” He paused. The guest

next to him, with a nervous smile and a top hat that didn’t entirely fit over his head, leaned over and whispered in the prince’s

ear. “The American Philosophical Society. Our good friends across the pond.” He cut short his own awkward laughter by abruptly

clearing his throat. “Feast your eyes.”

He nodded to two gentlemen who took each side of the red curtains and pulled them apart. The curtains rolled along the silver rod, splitting like the Red Sea to unveil the four gold-framed portraits behind the prince.

Gasps. Somewhere in the room, a glass shattered, likely slipped from someone’s hand.

In one photograph, Queen Victoria sat in a chair as normal as any other. What wasn’t normal was the silhouette of Prince Albert,

her husband, wrapped in a white veil, sitting at her feet as if to nudge himself against them.

“What...?” Bertie stumbled back, his cheeks flaming and his mouth agape. “What is this?”

In another photograph, Queen Victoria was hunched over in an elaborate black dress, very obviously weeping. Though faint,

everyone could see Prince Albert’s specter smiling down at her in the background.

“How frightening!” one patron said with a tremor in his voice. “Aren’t these supposed to be photographs?”

“If they’re photographs then how can we see the late prince?” someone else asked. “Or is Prince Albert... is he a—”

“Spirit!” someone cried. “The Queen is communicating with spirits!”

The room burst into scandalized conversation.

“My mother is... ,” Bertie whispered. “What the hell has she been doing?”

“I’ve heard of this.” Gowramma sidled up to me, a glass of wine in hand. “Spirit photography. It’s all the rage in America

right now, especially among those desperate to feel connected with their dead loved ones. It’s all trickery and technology.

I’m sure they’re using multiple exposures. Still, such a dreadfully morbid act to partake in.”

I thought so too, when Mrs. Mallet confessed to me the Queen’s extracurricular activities that day at the open café. Though

the pictures looked far worse here under such good light than they had in Bambridge’s darkroom.

Gowramma squinted “Is... Her Majesty lying in bed with her dead husband in that one?”

Sure enough, that was Queen Victoria with the corpse of her dead husband, not yet decayed. There were many in Britain who

believed spirits walked among us. But many skeptics and religious types detested such un-Christian activities.

The excuse that these were taken before Prince Albert’s death were out of the question given the dates on the photographs:

January 1862, a month after he left this world. Some photographers seemed very keen on dating their art—and signing it.

“William Bambridge?” Bertie had yelled the man’s name loud enough for people to hear.

Bambridge’s skin was as ghostly pale as Prince Albert in the last photo, holding his mourning wife. As everyone’s judging

gaze crawled over him like spiders, he began to shake, his lips sputtering out half-baked explanations that never quite formed

into full words. But a little humiliation wasn’t all I had in store for my former photographer.

“Men! There he is. Arrest him immediately!”

The crowd of England’s upper crust gasped and watched, utterly shocked as Scotland Yard, led by the newly promoted Chief Inspector

Charles Wilkes, marched into the museum exhibition and surrounded William Bambridge.

The crowd split into two, gathering around the ends of the hall. Good. I had a clear view from the opposite end of the room.

Bambridge let out a shriek-like whine. “What? What are you—?”

Seeing William Bambridge’s ears turn red was so wholly satisfying I had to press my hand against my mouth so laughter wouldn’t

escape my lips. Roger Fenton sidled away from him as quickly and discreetly as he could.

“What is the meaning of this?” Bambridge finally managed to spit out as two officers grabbed each of his arms—rather roughly . Good. Good.

“You’re under arrest for theft. We found the stolen work of Marcus Sparling in your possession.”

The crowd gasped.

“Stolen work?” I heard a woman say.

“So after photographing Her Majesty in such a state, he was going to sell the work of a fellow artist?” a man whispered to

his friend.

The guests stared at the Queen’s royal photographer and didn’t know what to think.

“You must be mad!” Bambridge screamed, struggling with the Scotland Yard officers. “Why in the devil’s name would you think

I had something to do with that?”

“Don’t try to deny it. We found the evidence in your portrait studio in Bayswater.”

William Bambridge’s whole face sank at the mention of the studio no one was supposed to know about. The studio where he created

works meant for his eyes only. Illicit works that would shock the royal family if they, like I, had discovered the hideout,

tracked it down, and broken in to take a look around.

“How do you know about that place?” he shouted before he could stop himself. Not the smartest words of a man trying to prove

his innocence. The chatter and accusatory gossip began almost immediately. Bambridge didn’t know what to think. With his eyes

bulging, he looked from wealthy guest to wealthy guest, hoping for someone to come to his defense. But no one did. Roger Fenton

deflated as he stared at his friend, soaking in the betrayal.

“You’ll have your chance to argue your case in court. But with the evidence we’ve found, I have a hard time believing you’ll

be seeing the outside of a jail cell in some time. Take him away, lads.”

Wilkes didn’t look at me as his officers wrestled with Bambridge. He wasn’t supposed to.

Like a good little soldier, Wilkes did as he was told.

Bambridge, however, would not. I’d never seen an old man struggle as hard as he did. “Are you mad? Me a thief? Don’t you know

who I am? I am the royal photographer for Queen Victoria!”

Oh, by now everyone knew. If the ghoulish spirit photographs weren’t proof enough.

“You’ve got the wrong man, you fools!” Bambridge fought as if his life depended on it. At some point, he knocked one of the

officers in the eye and backhanded one in the face. One of the officers grabbed him by the collar and, in the midst of the

battle, yanked off his bow tie. It fell to the ground unceremoniously.

“Take him away!” Wilkes ordered again.

As the boots of the Scotland Yard stomped on Bambridge’s forgotten bow tie, as the photographer was led out of the museum

screaming and crying, his reputation in tatters, I thought of my Egbado beads. Because of him, they’d been long discarded.

They were far more beautiful than his silly little black tie. It was the greater loss. Hopefully my ancestors felt at peace.

Bertie began ordering men to take the photographs of his mother down. On the opposite end of the room, Harriet threw me a

satisfied look.

Captain Davies strode up to my side as the crowd dispersed into their gossip silos. “Are you okay, Sally?” He took my hands

in his and squeezed them. His wide brown eyes shimmered with genuine concern. Caring and tender.

Gowramma scoffed. “Goodness. You’re acting as if Scotland Yard came for her .”

“She’s to be my wife, Your Highness. During times like these, I’d like to make sure she’s okay.”

Davies still had the tendency to treat me as a child—the child fourteen years his junior who he met in Freetown when I was a schoolgirl and he was a man of twenty-six. I wondered how old his former wife, Matilda, was when they’d met. Were they close in age? Was she his senior, looking to find her love and marriage match in a young, handsome boy on his way to success and greatness? Did love overcome all of it? What did it mean that I was expected to?

Davies seemed a virtuous man. He wanted to do right by me and I could see it. But there was too much I couldn’t overlook.

My expected voicelessness. The Queen’s hand in it all...

Gowramma swept her long dark brown hair over her shoulders. “Well, in any case, I think we’ve all got enough material for

about a week’s worth of conversation. Though I don’t imagine I’ll be attending any more events this week, not if they’re all

as tiring.”

Liar. She would attend them all if they were this fun. I did my utmost to hold back a grin.

“I can’t believe it,” Davies whispered. “Bambridge, a criminal. And those disgusting pictures of the Queen. How mortifying!”

That was the point. The Queen was at home right now, perhaps communing with some spirits. But this news would reach her soon.

If she did manage to speak to some spirits tonight, whether she channeled her ancestors or mine, they’d tell her that this

was only the beginning.

Later that night, over on Porchester Terrace, inside William Bambridge’s secret studio, I wondered who was prouder: me, or

Rui.

Well, I had done most of the work, bribing Andrea Bradley, using her to blackmail Charles Wilkes and finally moving the inspector like a chess piece to knock Bambridge off the board. Queen Victoria’s reputation was already on shaky ground since Prince Albert had passed. It would take a deeper dive now in the public once word spread she had commissioned postmortem photography—such a strange and controversial pastime.

As for Rui himself, he sat in the green chair next to the stage, his legs folded. His black hair was deliciously unkempt.

He reached out to me and when I took his hands, I noticed they smelled of lilac, like mine.

“Tell me,” I asked him, pulling up my skirt to sit on his lap, pleased when he let out the faintest moan. “Was it difficult,

sneaking into the museum to bring in Bambridge’s portraits of the Queen? Did your men help you?”

Rui fluffed up my dress so it covered his lap, straightening the ruffles around the edges. “Are you sure you want to know

all the dirty details?” He seemed to reconsider. “Then again, if it’s you, I don’t think you’ll mind anything too dirty.”

He flashed me a confident, lopsided grin as he brought my fingers to his lips and softly smelled the lilac from them.

The heat between our hips was electrifying. The excitement from danger and mischief. The euphoria of a life deservedly ruined.

It was intoxicating. I slid up closer to him. As close as I could until there was barely space between our bodies.

“And what about that boy? Dalton Sass?” Rui placed his hands on my bare thighs. My body warmed and shivered as his hot touch

slid up and down my soft flesh. “If what you told me is true, he’ll be a problem.”

“I’ve taken down others. I can take him down too.”

“Are you sure?” Rui gave me a sidelong look. “He seems to want to kill you.”

“Then I’ll just have to kill him first.”

Rui’s grip on my legs hardened in a flash and a groan escaped from his mouth. I let out a gasp from the pain, and a gasp as

they slipped up my thighs, a gasp that was captured by the criminal prince’s lips before I could catch my breath.

Finally, a kiss. And it was a kiss worth waiting for, full of passion, lust, and every other immodest emotion Miss Welsh and Mama Schoen had warned me against as they prepared me for a loveless marriage.

“That’s it, Sally,” he said to me in a harsh whisper, releasing my bottom lip, letting the wetness settle there. “That’s exactly

how you should be: ruthless without regret. How intoxicating it is to see a princess fall.”

Taking off my gloves and throwing them to the studio floor, I gripped his black vest, slid my hand through his open shirt

so my hand could feel his chest, and returned the kiss just as hungrily. Crushing him against the chair, I felt invincible.

I remembered the girl in the portrait and saw the blood return to her face and the life to her eyes.

With one swift movement, Rui seized my bottom and lowered me to the floor. I wrapped my legs around his waist as my back hit

the wood and his weight fell upon me.

Just a little bit more , I told myself as I drowned in our kisses and ascended to heaven. Everything would work out. Everything I plan always works

out.

The euphoric revelation carried me through the night, my lips on Rui’s neck, his legs intertwined with mine.

If only I knew that night that Bambridge’s stint in prison would be a short one. A few days later, I learned of the monster’s

release.

Dalton Sass had arranged it.