Chapter Twenty
We at the Regal Record can exclusively report that Princess Mary is under the care of the royal physician after a barrier broke outside Royal London Children’s Hospital shortly after noon, causing a crowd surge that swarmed the heir to the throne.
The frightening incident was caught live by BBC World News, with footage showing Her Royal Highness and Evangeline Bright being ushered to safety after greeting fans outside the hospital, where they had spent the morning supporting the Children’s Trust. Even though the event was thought to be cancelled, the crowd that gathered to meet the royal sisters was reported to be in the hundreds—not exactly surprising, considering the bombshell photos that were posted by the Daily Sun exposing the affair between Queen Helene and Prince Nicholas. One must wonder why His Majesty, in all his wisdom, sent his daughters out into the chaos like lambs to the slaughter, particularly when their security was clearly unprepared to handle the size and scope of the crowd.
While Evangeline is reportedly unharmed, Her Royal Highness was swept up in the surge, causing significant bruising and a sprained wrist. Royal insiders have revealed that Mary is resting comfortably at Windsor Castle, and we wish our brave little princess a speedy recovery.
—TheRegal Record, 10 January 2024
MAISIE IS INCONSOLABLE.
I try for a while, but there’s nothing I can say—nothing anyone except Gia can say—that will offer her any comfort. She sobs until she has no tears left, and Rosie, Kit, and I spend the rest of the day with her in her suite, alternating between listening to her rant, assuring her that she’s not a terrible person, and discreetly picking up the trail of used tissues in her wake.
Rosie leaves after dinner, and Maisie ends up falling asleep with her head in my lap in the middle of some insipid vampire movie, but I don’t have the heart to wake her. Instead, Kit drapes a pair of blankets over us, and even though I know I’ll be sore tomorrow, I lean my head against the back of the sofa, close my eyes, and do my best to convince myself that no one will try to kill any of us in the morning.
I don’t remember my dreams that night, but when I jolt awake shortly before sunrise, I have the vague sense of having just escaped something terrible. It takes me a moment to realize where I am, and I glance around the darkness as I try to calm my racing heart. Maisie has migrated from the sofa to the nest of pillows Kit’s created in the middle of her sitting room, and they’re lying with their feet inches from the other’s face, in a way that feels so casually familiar that I’m sure this isn’t the first family sleepover they—and likely Ben—have had.
Tap tap tap.
“Your Royal Highness?”
To my surprise, it isn’t a member of the household staff or even Fitz who cracks open Maisie’s door. Instead, as warm lamplight filters into the sitting room, I see Tibby standing in the doorway, hovering like she isn’t sure whether she’s allowed inside.
“Still asleep,” I mumble, and Tibby breathes a sharp sigh of relief.
“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
I sit up and run my fingers through my hair. It’s sticking up in every direction thanks to the hair spray my stylist used yesterday, and I make a face. “Maisie had a rough night. What time is it?”
“Nearly eight o’clock,” she says softly. “His Majesty wishes to see you.”
“Everything all right?” says Kit from his spot on the floor, and when I glance down, his eyes are open, though he hasn’t moved. Maisie, mercifully, is still fast asleep.
“I couldn’t say,” says Tibby. “All Jenkins told me is that the King and Evan’s mother have requested that she join them for breakfast.”
“What about Maisie?” I say, slowly stretching my sore shoulder. It’s better than it was last night, but the ache is still persistent.
“I believe it would be best to let Her Royal Highness sleep,” says Tibby pointedly. And considering my sister’s puffy face and the dark shadows beneath her eyes, I can’t disagree.
After I leave a note for Maisie beside her phone, Kit and I extract ourselves from her sitting room, careful not to wake her. He ducks into his suite while I head into mine to shower and get dressed, and twenty minutes later, we’re walking down the long gallery together, toward the private dining room.
“Any idea what this is about?” I say, and Kit shakes his head.
“Maybe just a family breakfast.”
“Maybe,” I echo, but considering everything that happened yesterday, I’m not convinced. And with each step we take, my anxiety grows, until I’m absolutely sure that whatever this is, it isn’t good.
Alexander and my mother are waiting for us in the private dining room, and immediately I notice that it’s just us—there are no footmen lingering nearby, no kitchen staff bustling through the door with fresh dishes for the buffet, and I have to fight the urge to turn around and walk right back out.
“Good morning, Evie,” says my mom, and she joins me and kisses my hair. “How do you feel?”
“Sore,” I admit, gingerly flexing my shoulder. “We stayed the night with Maisie.”
“How is she?” says Alexander from where he stands near the dining table. The smell of eggs and sausage and pancakes permeates the air, but my stomach only turns.
“Not great. Relationship stuff,” I add as he frowns. “You should ask her.”
Alexander nods grimly, but when I move to the buffet with my mom, I notice Kit is still lingering near the entrance.
“Should I…?” he says, his hands behind his back and his body angled toward the door.
“If you wouldn’t mind excusing us—” my father begins, but my mother cuts him off.
“Stay,” she insists, beckoning for him. “There’s plenty for everyone.”
“Laura,” says my father, but she gives him a look.
“He should be here for this,” she insists, and though Alexander purses his lips, he doesn’t argue. And while Kit looks about as nervous as I feel, he doesn’t protest, either.
With my fear that this isn’t a normal breakfast confirmed, my throat is tight, and all I get from the buffet is a cup of black coffee that’s too bitter for me to enjoy. We stick to small talk until we’re all seated at the table, with Kit beside me and my parents across from us, and as I study them both, I realize they look like they’re bracing themselves for a fight. Terrific.
“What’s going on?” I say, my stomach doing somersaults, and though my mother picks nervously at the dried paint on her nails, her gaze doesn’t leave mine.
“We have something we’d like to speak to you about, Evie. Something important.”
Instantly my exhaustion evaporates, and I glare at Alexander. “We talked about this.”
He turns pink. “This isn’t that, darling,” he reassures me. “Nothing’s changed between your mother and me. We simply…”
“We’d like to take you back to Virginia,” says my mom. “For the time being, until everything settles down.”
Despite all the possibilities running rampant through my mind, this one didn’t even occur to me. “What?” I say. “Why?”
My mother glances at Alexander, but she doesn’t wait for him to explain. “After everything that happened at Sandringham, and then yesterday, with the crowd surge…it isn’t safe for you here,” she says. “Not until we know who was behind the shooting.”
“I already know who was behind the shooting,” I protest. “Ben. Why isn’t anyone looking into him?”
“Evie…” My mom presses her hands together, and I think I see her fingers twitch. “Tibby told us about your suspicions, and how they’ve been affecting you.”
I grit my teeth. Of course she did. “That’s no reason—”
“And if Ben is harassing you, then that’s certainly something I can address with security,” says my father, as if I haven’t spoken. “But your mother’s right. It would be safer for you in the States for a little while.”
“Safer how?” I argue. “Tibby made it clear that you’re taking every precaution during our appearances, and the castle has armed guards surrounding it at all times. Unless you’ve significantly upped the security at my mom’s house, I’ll always be safer here.”
My mom hesitates. “It isn’t just about your physical safety, sweetheart. The incident outside the hospital—”
“That was an accident,” I say. “The barrier broke, Mom. No one did it on purpose.”
Alexander clears his throat. “Your protection officer mentioned that you thought you saw a man with a gun.”
Beside me, Kit stiffens, and any warmth I feel toward Ingrid instantly evaporates. “I was wrong,” I say. “Ingrid’s positive he was only holding his phone.”
“Yes, but…” My mom stares at a spot somewhere behind me, her gaze unfocused. “We’re worried about you, Evie. What happened to you at Sandringham…it would rattle anyone. You need time to recover properly, and you won’t have that here.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. They’re not talking about physical recovery, I realize. They’re talking about my mental health.
“I’m not going,” I say flatly. “Maisie’s falling apart, and she needs me.”
“You need rest and recuperation—” begins Alexander, but I cut him off.
“Then I’ll do that here,” I say. “I’ll even go to therapy if you insist. But I’m not leaving.”
Kit takes my hand below the table, and I look at him, the edge of my anger melting away. He looks…hollow, I think. Deeply, utterly, bone-wearily wrung out, exhausted, and just—sad. It’s so startling that I don’t know what to say, or even what to think.
“They’re right,” he says, so quietly I can barely hear him. “The past seven months have been extraordinarily difficult, and you weren’t given the proper time or space to come to terms with it. After what Jasper and Ben did to you, and after what happened at Sandringham…”
“I’ve spent almost three weeks up to my eyeballs in TV shows and movies and books and music with you,” I say, my voice breaking slightly. “That’s plenty of time. I’m fine, really—”
“I don’t think you are,” he says, sandwiching my hand between both of his now. “I’ll go with you, if you’d like. You can show me where you grew up, and we’ll go for walks in the park and order from your favorite restaurants, and we’ll just…relax.”
“But you have to go back to university,” I say, and he shrugs.
“I can put it off. It won’t be the end of the world. What will be the end of the world, though, is if something happens to you because of—all this.” He gestures around the room, but he’s not just talking about Windsor Castle. He’s talking about everything. “Please, Evan. Consider it.”
I swallow convulsively, my eyes growing hot with tears of frustration. “How long do you want to banish me?” I say acidly to my parents.
Alexander clasps his hands together so tightly that his knuckles are white. “We wouldn’t be banishing you, sweetheart. You’d be welcome back anytime you’d like, and—”
“At least a few months,” says my mother softly. “Maybe more.”
I exhale sharply. Not days or weeks, but months. “Why can’t I start therapy here? And if things get worse, maybe then—”
There’s a knock on the door, and Alexander scowls. But before he can send whoever it is away, the door to the private dining room opens, and Jenkins steps inside. He’s pale and his expression is drawn, and for one horrible moment, I’m sure something devastating has happened.
I’m not alone, and Alexander’s anger seems to die in his throat. “Jenkins? What’s going on?” he says, his hand finding my mother’s.
“I beg your pardon for interrupting, Your Majesty,” says Jenkins with a bow of his head. “But I fear this couldn’t wait. I’ve just received word from Doyle—it seems Her Majesty recorded an interview with Katharine O’Donnell late last week, and as a courtesy, the BBC has let us know it will be airing tonight.”
“An interview?” says Alexander, confusion muddling the worry on his face. “What sort?”
Jenkins hesitates. “While my source was not especially forthcoming, it seems Her Majesty has taken it upon herself to…disclose private information regarding her affair,” he says. “And yours.”
Instantly Alexander’s expression darkens. “Of bloody course she did. Do we know how bad it is?”
“I fear it doesn’t look good, sir,” says Jenkins. “We’re trying to negotiate a delay, especially in the aftermath of the incident with Miss Bright and Her Royal Highness yesterday, but I’m afraid the head of the BBC is refusing to reschedule. Or allow us access to the interview before it airs.”
Jenkins crosses the room now, and he wordlessly offers my father a tablet. Alexander accepts it with some reluctance, and I stand, my fury at my parents’ so-called intervention temporarily pushed aside as I lean over to get a better view.
Jenkins has already queued up a video, and when Alexander hits Play, Helene’s face fills the screen, her makeup plain, her hair down, and her blue eyes brimming with tears.
“…spent the best years of my life loving him,” she says in her honeyed voice, soft and sweet and devastating. “But now that I know the real truth of it, I know it was all a lie.”
Her face fades, and then, in big block letters, words appear.
Helene—Her Truth, Her Love, and Her Gilded Cage