Chapter Thirteen
“This past year, my family has been through a great many challenges that have tested our fortitude and courage. But it is our love for one another, and our love for our country and Commonwealth, that have allowed us to persevere in the face of trying circumstances. While the future may be—and always is—uncertain, we can count on this love, and our love for the people, to ensure that our faith and devotion to serve this great nation never waver.”
—Excerpt from His Majesty’s Christmas Speech, 25 December 2023
WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES MIDNIGHT, Maisie has left, and both Kit and my mother are sleeping soundly on the red velvet sofas in my sitting room.
I should be resting, too, but my mind is buzzing even though my body feels like it’s full of sand. The photo album Ben gave me is barely a foot beneath my mother’s head now, seemingly forgotten among the other gifts scattered throughout the room, but I can feel its presence like a black hole, sucking me in whenever I so much as glance in that direction.
Alexander and I sit at the dining table now, the twinkling Christmas lights illuminating his tired face as we flip through my new record collection. I know I should say something—about the gold lettering on the cover that only I saw, about the death year that Ben didn’t bother to properly remove, and about the very real possibility that his so-called gift was originally meant to be a memorial to me. But after Alexander’s repeated assertions that Ben had nothing to do with the attack, I don’t know how to tell him without sounding like a broken record that can’t move on. Besides, I already know exactly what Ben will say—that the photo album was meant to only chronicle the first eighteen years of my life, but after the shooting, he thoughtfully removed the end date, realizing belatedly what it looked like. Or maybe he’ll insist it was a simple printing error that arrived too late to correct. Either way, it’ll be an uphill battle, and in the end, I still won’t be able to prove a thing.
I’ll tell Alexander soon, I decide. After the holidays, or if Ben refuses to crawl back underneath a rock and stay out of our lives. I can’t make myself destroy the fragile contentment that’s settled over my father, though, not after the few days we’ve all had. And so, for these last moments of my first Christmas with my family, I make myself focus on the selection of records Kit and Maisie chose for me instead. Most are predictable, from bands they know I love, but a few of them are curious choices, and I set them aside to listen to first.
“You and Kit have grown rather close lately, haven’t you?” says Alexander in a low voice as he examines the back of a Fleetwood Mac album.
“Isn’t that the whole point of dating?” I say, studying one of the many Taylor Swift records Maisie included. She wasn’t kidding—it really is signed specifically to me. The majority of the covers are, and it’s daunting to see the evidence of just how many favors she can call in for a simple Christmas present.
“Does it feel like a long-term thing?” says Alexander, and my face grows hot as I set the album aside and select another. Ed Sheeran. Also signed.
“He jumped in front of a literal bullet for me,” I point out. “I think I’m going to hold on to him for a while.”
“And if none of that had happened?” says Alexander.
“Then he’d be stuck with me anyway. What about you and my mom?” I add, glancing at her sleeping form. My gaze automatically drifts to the space beneath the sofa, however, and I look back at my father. “What’s the plan there?”
He clears his throat. “Your mother’s the love of my life,” he says. “I was a fool and walked away from her twice—once when my father died, and again when she needed me the most. I won’t make that mistake a third time.”
“What about Helene?” I say, picking up another album. Reignwolf. My favorite band, and definitely one of Kit’s choices. “Are you planning on getting a divorce?”
A beat passes before Alexander answers. “I don’t know,” he admits. “That’s a conversation she and I’ve been having for a very long time, and neither of us is eager to throw our family—your mother and Nicholas included—into that particular fire.”
“So you want my mom to be your mistress again?” I say, and the words taste foul.
“Of course not. She never was my mistress,” he says, and when I open my mouth to point out the obvious, he keeps going. “She was always the real thing to me—the true center of my life. My marriage and the rest of it…that was the part I couldn’t escape.”
I pull another vinyl from the stack—a Spice Girls album bearing four signatures. Apparently even Maisie’s power has limits. “You’re going to hurt her again.”
“I’d rather throw myself off a cliff,” he says without affectation. “Regardless of what happens with the status of my marriage to Helene, I have every intention…no,” he corrects himself. “I will spend the rest of my life making your mother happy and giving her every wonderful thing she deserves. I promise you, Evan, I will never hurt her again.”
He says this with more conviction than I’ve ever heard from him before—maybe more than I’ve ever heard from anyone—but I still can’t help the niggling doubt worming its way inside me. “What if Helene decides she does want a divorce? What happens then?”
“What do you mean?” says Alexander.
“I mean—will you marry my mom?”
This seems to bring him up short, even though this can’t be the first time he’s thought about it. “Why do you ask?” he says carefully.
“Because…” I hesitate. To me, it’s obvious, but apparently not to him. “Because that would make her queen. And you said so yourself—she doesn’t want that.”
“No, she doesn’t,” he agrees quietly. “And I would never force her into a role she doesn’t want.”
“Then you wouldn’t marry her?” I say. “She’d still be your mistress?”
“Partner,” he corrects. “Exactly as she is now. Exactly as she has been since the day we met.”
I consider that. It’s not how I see them—maybe because of the power imbalance, or maybe because of all those years I thought my mom’s relationship with him was a figment of her illness. But I remember how she silently comforted him in the hospital the day before, and how she can calm both his temper and his nerves with a touch, and something about the way I think of them both shifts. He’s not a king when he’s with her, and she’s not a mistress or a home-wrecker or any of the other disgusting things the media calls her. They’re just…together.
“You don’t want her to leave, do you?” I say, and he purses his lips.
“We were going to wait to speak to you about it in the new year, but…no, I don’t. And neither does she.”
I shake my head, more out of instinct than conscious thought. “She can’t stay. I want her here as much as you do, but the press is out for her blood, and the people will never give her a chance. She won’t be able to set foot outside the castle without risking her life—”
“I can keep her safe,” he insists, and I give him a look. “I mean it, Evie. What happened to you won’t ever happen again.”
“It’s not just that,” I say. “It’s her routine. It’s everything that’s familiar. You know how important that all is for her mental health. Disruptions, big changes—they can confuse her, and she’s already pushing herself too hard—”
“You’re important for her mental health, too.”
I shake my head again. “She went seven years without seeing me in person.”
“Only because she thought it was the right thing to do,” he says. “Those were the hardest years of her life, and I have no desire to watch her go through that again. As difficult as it might be for a little while, she’ll be happier here, once she settles in. She’ll be happier here with both of us.”
“But—”
“Evie.” He takes my good hand. His skin is warm and dry, and there’s a comforting weight to his touch that I’m still not used to. “You’ve spent a very long time worrying about your mum, and I understand why. But she isn’t delicate, and she won’t shatter, not because of something like this. She’s strong—stronger than you realize, I think—and she’s had to deal with more than any of us can fully comprehend. This is what she wants—very badly—and even if you can’t trust my judgment, you can trust hers.”
I feel like I’ve swallowed my tongue, and tears prickle in my eyes as I try to sort my panicked thoughts into something tangible. “If anything happens to her…”
“It won’t,” he says, and he squeezes my hand. “Nothing will happen to either of you again, I swear it. I’ve spoken to the home secretary, and starting immediately, you’ll be assigned your own around-the-clock protection officers.”
“Me?” I say, stunned. “Or my mom, too?”
“You,” he admits. “She isn’t eligible, I’m afraid, though should she choose to venture out on her own, I will ensure she has a private security team with her at all times.”
My heart’s beating a little too fast now, and the lights around us start to blur together. “That won’t protect her from Ben.”
“Benedict won’t hurt her, Evie,” says Alexander with a frown. “There’s no denying he put you through hell last summer, and I will never forgive him for it. But he isn’t responsible for the shooting. He may be arrogant and spoiled, but I’ve known him his entire life, and there are some things he simply isn’t capableof.”
Maybe Alexander means for this to be reassuring, but a hollow forms in the pit of my stomach, and I swallow, my throat dry. It won’t matter if I tell him about the date on the photo album, I realize. He’s already made up his mind about Ben, and nothing short of a smoking gun will change it.
“What if you’re wrong?” I say. “What if he does try something? Or—what if he already has, and we just don’t know it yet?”
“Then we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it,” he says quietly. “And in the meantime, you and your mother will be well-protected against all threats, both inside the castle and out. I promise.”
He means it—it’s obvious he means it with all his damn heart. But I still don’t believe him.
“I want to learn how to defend myself,” I blurt, and my father tilts his head like I’ve just suggested growing wings.
“Pardon?”
“Once I’ve recovered, I want someone to teach me how to fight,” I say. “Not just with my hands, but with weapons, too. Something I can keep on me at all times in case security fails.”
The thought of shoving a knife between Ben’s ribs brings only a fraction of the comfort it should, but Alexander’s nod helps considerably. “Very well. I will make the arrangements.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, picking up an album by a rock band called Royal Blood. Either Kit chose this because of his impeccable analysis of my musical tastes, or it’s Maisie’s idea of a joke. “Why am I eligible for personal protection officers when my mom isn’t?”
Alexander exhales. “Well—I was going to wait until you were older, but given the circumstances…I was hoping you’d agree to become a working royal.”
I blink, positive I haven’t heard him right. “What?”
“It’s a bit unorthodox,” he allows. “Considering you’re not…well, legitimate, technically speaking.”
“I’m not a royal, either,” I point out, setting the record down.
“You’re my daughter. That’s good enough,” he says firmly. “And should you want it, I could—I would—issue a letters patent to style you Her Royal Highness The Princess Evangeline.”
For a split second, the room seems to tip sideways as the weight of his words settles over me. A princess. He wants to make me an actual princess, and when I suck in a stunned breath, I damn near choke.
“That,” I wheeze, “is an excellent way to start an uprising and end the British monarchy for good.”
He chuckles, even though absolutely none of this is funny. “Yes, well. You’re worth it.”
This is almost sweet of him, minus the threat of anarchy, and I take a sip of my cooling hot cocoa to ease the sudden block of ice in my stomach. “Are you only offering because I almost died?”
“Of course not,” he says. “Though I suppose the whole incident did help…clarify a few things for me. And it certainly made me see that you deserve far better than what I’ve offered.”
I shrug. “You’ve given me a family. I don’t need titles or jewels or—or all the rest of it. Besides, it really would cause a riot, and Maisie would literally murder me if she never got to be queen.”
“I’ll take that as a no, then,” says Alexander, who doesn’t sound the least bit surprised.
“Absolutely, unequivocally, emphatically no,” I say. “I’m not really into the whole princess thing anyway.”
He laughs again, a quiet rumble that only carries between us. “And being a working royal? Is that something you’d be interested in? You’d receive a generous allowance, and you’re already doing the majority of the work, with the appearances you’ve been making with Maisie and me. Your education would take top priority, of course, and you may step back whenever you’d like. But you could do a great deal of good for many people, and the country would be lucky to have you.”
That last part is bullshit, but I study him for a moment. “What does my mom think?”
“Your mother is incredibly proud of you no matter what, and she wouldn’t dream of taking away your choice in the matter,” he says. “But I’m certain she would feel infinitely better if you had the protection that comes with the job. We both would.”
“You could just hire private security for me, too,” I say, even though the thought of being followed around all the time makes my skin crawl.
“I could,” he says slowly, “and I will, if you decide this isn’t for you. But if you’ll excuse my candor…I’m sick of the media acting like you mean less to me because your mother and I aren’t married. It’s absurd. You’re every bit as important to me as your sister, and if you won’t accept a title, then this is what I have to offer instead. An official place in this business we call a family.”
I toy with a loose thread on my sling. If I’m being honest with myself, I’m sick of it, too. I’m sick of my legitimacy—or lack thereof—being brought up in every article. I’m sick of being sneered at by royalists and media commentators who’ve never met me. And I am really, really sick of everyone treating me and my mother like something disgusting Alexander stepped in and now can’t get rid of.
“Do I get paid time off?” I say at last. “And what are the benefits like? I can’t agree unless I know what kind of pension and health-care plan you’re offering.”
This time he laughs loud enough for my mom to stir beneath her quilt, and we immediately fall silent again until she stills. “All excellent, I assure you,” he teases in a whisper. “I’ve no doubt we can come to a satisfying arrangement.”
“Then I suppose I could consider your offer,” I say. “As long as Maisie isn’t my boss.”
“Not for a very long time.” He leans forward to press a kiss to my forehead. “I have one more gift for you.”
Alexander stands and fetches the jacket of his tuxedo, which he’s long since discarded. He pulls a small package from the inner pocket, and as he sits back down, he offers it to me.
“What is it?” I say suspiciously, already tucking the slim box between my knees and untying the gold ribbon with my good hand.
“A necessity,” he says. “One you can’t turn down this time, I’m afraid.”
As I rip away the rest of the wrapping and see the logo, I groan. “Seriously?”
“You need a mobile, Evie,” says Alexander. “If Kit hadn’t brought his yesterday, you would have bled to death. You don’t need to use it, but you do need to have it on you—charged—at all times.”
“But I’ll already have protection officers,” I say. “Isn’t this overkill?”
“No,” he says simply. “It’s not.”
Even though I’ve used plenty of smartphones before, I listen closely as he shows me how it works. This one has a few features I’m pretty sure don’t come standard, including a tracking app that can’t be turned off, and after my father has me repeat the sequence to trigger my panic button—two short presses of the volume keys, followed by a lengthier one—he seems to breathe a little easier.
“I love you, sweetheart,” he says. “Our family leads a complicated life of service to this country, but it can be good, too. If you let it.”
“It already is,” I promise, briefly taking his hand. “Are you going to stay?”
He nods. “Just until your mother wakes. Why don’t you get some rest?”
Even though I want nothing more than to curl up with Kit, I can barely get comfortable in my own bed right now, let alone on a stiff sofa made in the Victorian era. And so I allow Alexander to help me to my bedroom door, where he hugs me again, a little longer than usual.
“Happy Christmas, Evie,” he murmurs, and when he lets me go, I smile up at him in the glow of the colorful lights.
“Merry Christmas, Dad,” I whisper, and just as I turn toward my bedroom door, I swear I see his eyes glisten.
I’m so tired that I can barely brush my teeth, and I give up on braiding my hair almost as soon as the thought crosses my mind. I stumble to my bed and ease down onto the edge, warm and full and feeling more hopeful than I have in ages, despite the photo album under the sofa and the stitches below my shoulder and the ache that tells me I need to take another painkiller. But as I shift to turn off my bedside lamp, I notice something on the nightstand.
A gift wrapped in silver paper.
Instantly my dreams from earlier that day come flooding back to me, and I see Constance bathed in pink light from the window—the light of the setting sun, I realize. With my heart suddenly pounding, I gingerly tear open the present and reveal a black velvet box underneath.
Inside is a simple diamond pendant hanging from a white-gold necklace. It’s beautiful, and as I touch the pendant, I can’t help but wonder if it’s a cubic zirconia, if only to drive home the metaphor of how I’ll never be the real thing. But as much as Constance despises me, she’s a queen, and I’m positive she’d never gift a fake diamond to anyone—even to me.
There’s a folded piece of card stock tucked into the top of the box, and I open it. Her handwriting is cramped and almost archaically difficult to read, but her signature is clear.
Dear Evangeline,
Happy Christmas.
Sincerely,
Her Majesty Queen Constance
That’s it. No explanation, no quippy insult—just a simple greeting, even less than I’d expect from a dentist or a site I ordered from three years ago trying to lure me back.
Exhausted and confused, I close the velvet box and set it aside. Maybe Alexander isn’t the only one who found some clarity in the fact that I almost died, but even though I know it’s uncharitable of me, I somehow doubt it.
As I finally rest my head on the pillow, however, another moment from that dream flashes through my mind. It wasn’t just Constance standing over me. Ben was there, too, in the indigo of twilight.
My eyes fly open, and I look around the dark room, as if I’ll find him lurking nearby, staring at me through the shadows. But he doesn’t need to anymore. I have the pictures to prove he’s always there, even when he isn’t, and I pull the blanket tighter around my aching body.
No matter where he is in the world, he’ll always be watching—and waiting for the right moment to make his next move.