Chapter Nineteen
rebel, Princess, Terrorist, Spy—And Instant Bestseller
The highly anticipated film adaptation is also set to premiere this week, with members of the royal family—including the subjects themselves—in attendance.
Though typically adaptations take years to develop, produce, and edit, Smythe worked side by side with a team of screenwriters to ensure the film could be rushed into production this spring.
Thanks to the generosity of both the royal family and Oxford University for allowing most of the real-life locations to be used during production, the book and the film are set to be released within days of each other.
A savvy move from Buckingham Palace, considering the popularity the young couple are currently enjoying.
Written after a series of in-depth private interviews with both Bright and Clarence, Rebel, Princess, Terrorist, Spy is a captivating, edge-of-your-seat thriller, made all the more so for knowing it is, according to the author and subjects themselves, entirely true.
The months that follow the live interview are a blur.
Our schedule of appearances is endless as Kit and I are ushered all across the UK, then continental Europe, Australia, and a dozen American cities.
Charities, talk shows, podcasts, magazine spreads—if there’s a way for Astrid and Doyle to exploit the public’s newfound love for us, they take it, and despite our faces being everywhere, no one seems to grow tired of us.
I tell myself that it has to end eventually, but Astrid is a genius at stringing the public along.
Anytime their interest in us even remotely wanes, she releases a juicy tidbit, about the movie or book or our relationship.
She’s especially fond of engagement rumors and behind-the-scenes photos of Kit and me looking ridiculously in love, which I never see her take.
And, of course, Astrid never asks before she posts.
My life no longer belongs to me, but while I know that this is supposed to be a good thing—that we want the public to adore us and root for us—I can’t help but wish, more often than I should, that Kit and I were back in our flat in Oxford, alone in our bedroom, wrapped together and just—being.
My sister is, of course, furious. At first, I think she’s still mad at me for not telling her what we were doing in Oxford, but once she starts to shun Kit, too, I realize she’s jealous.
I don’t blame her. She was born for this kind of attention—a spotlight that never turns off, where our every move is analyzed, and we have whole fandoms dedicated to us now.
Maisie does, too, and has since the day she was born, but to no one’s surprise, she’s terrible at sharing even a fraction of the limelight.
It only gets worse when, in April, Tibby announces that Kit and I are outpolling Maisie in whatever unhinged popularity contest the palace PR department has created to no doubt rein in the egos of the royal family.
“Why would anyone even ask the public to rank us?” I say from a fitting platform, while Louis Jenkins hems a gown I’m supposed to wear for an upcoming gala. “Has this been going on the whole time I’ve been here?”
“It’s been going on for decades,” says Tibby, tapping her tablet. “And no one told you because you were at the bottom of the approval polls for months, and you tend to get a bit testy whenever someone points out that you could be doing more to appease the public.”
“I don’t care what anyone thinks of me,” I protest, shifting in my sky-high heels, which were not designed to bear weight this long.
“If that were true,” says Louis cheerfully, “then you wouldn’t be racing about trying to make the world love you.”
I scowl. “I’m trying to make sure they know we’re not terrorists. There’s a difference.”
“If you say so, darling,” says Louis, and he winks at me before shifting his attention back to my dress.
“I wouldn’t feel too guilty about it,” says Tibby as she scratches Poppy behind the ear. “Maisie’s still coming in fourth, well ahead of the Queen, Prince Nicholas, and the traitor. Neck and neck with the Queen Mother, though, which is rather a surprise.”
I do the math. “Wait—who’s third? Alexander?”
Tibby raises her eyebrows. “His Majesty is first. Naturally.”
“Naturally,” I echo, but the relief that floods me is like cool water on a July day.
The people still love him, even though they haven’t seen my father in months.
Some corners of the internet keep trying to spin conspiracy theories, claiming that he died in the blast, but while the uncertain timeline of his recovery is stressing out Jenkins, Doyle, and pretty much everyone else involved with the constitutional monarchy, no one is pushing him.
Especially when he still has to relearn how to walk.
What no one says out loud is that Kit and I aren’t just doing PR for ourselves—we’re a distraction, too, buying Alexander time and keeping the heat off him.
And it’s working. Everywhere Kit and I go, we’re greeted by an ever-growing legion of fans who call themselves Pearls—apparently a combination of princess and earl, never mind that I’m not a princess and earl is a courtesy title.
It’s sweet at first, taking selfies with them and hearing their stories, listening as they tell me how they believed in Kit and me all along, even though it’s probably bullshit.
But as the numbers grow, the more extreme some get—especially with Kit.
They grab at him, hold up signs proposing marriage, and one even tries to cut a lock of his hair.
I have a few die-hard fans, too, but the most they really do is break down into tears and hug me too tight and refuse to let go when it’s time for me to move on.
At last, after an incident that ends with three fans trampled and scratch marks down Kit’s arm, our security insists that our walkabouts and direct interaction with the crowd end.
I’m relieved, and not only because the crowds unnerve me now.
No one says his name, but I’ve never forgotten that Dylan is still out there somewhere, and as long as he’s free, Kit and I will never be completely safe.
We never talk about Ben, either, even when we’re alone at night, my head against Kit’s chest as I listen to his heartbeat.
Sometimes I do a quick online search to see if Ben has popped up anywhere, but he’s a ghost. Maybe that’s part of why Kit and I are so happy, or at least why we’re able to find so much comfort in each other.
It isn’t perfect—Kit’s continued with his therapist multiple times a week, and I started speaking to my own shortly after our live interview.
But we listen to each other now. We communicate.
We do our best to be there for each other and to heal as well as we can, and even when we accidentally touch scar tissue or a wound that’s still open, we find a way through it.
Because a life without Kit isn’t one I’m interested in living, either, and nothing—especially not my stupid pride—is worth losing him again.
In July, shortly after Maisie and I turn nineteen and celebrate our shared birthday apart, the fire damage that Ben caused is finally repaired.
Alexander is moved from Balmoral, where he’s spent the spring and summer slowly getting better under the watchful eyes of my mother and Constance, back to Windsor Castle.
Though both Kit and I are offered our usual separate rooms, we decide to move into a larger suite together.
And only once we arrive home, exhausted after a whirlwind trip to Canada, do we discover they’re Helene’s old lodgings.
“This is weird, right?” I say as we explore the renovated apartment for the first time.
Instead of red and gold furnishings, like my old rooms, everything is in lifeless white and silver.
My mother’s artwork hangs on the walls, though, replacing whichever long-dead royals have been on display for possibly centuries, giving the room a much-needed splash of color.
“Very,” admits Kit, peering out the window. “We really ought to check with housekeeping to make sure they’ve changed the sheets.”
“And sanitized the sofa,” I say. Kit chuckles.
“Maybe we should track down a can of disinfectant spray, just in case,” he says, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
“It definitely can’t hurt.” I lean my head against his shoulder, casting my gaze around the new apartment. Our new apartment. “Thank you. For all of this.”
I don’t just mean moving in with me. I mean everything we’ve been through together over the past year, and as Kit’s grip tightens around my waist, he seems to understand.
“Always on the good days, but especially the bad,” he whispers, his warm breath tickling my ear.
“Let’s grab some provisions from the kitchens and see how long we can hide out here without anyone else finding us, yeah? ”
“I’d give Tibby an hour at most,” I say morosely. It never takes her long to track me down. “But it’s possible she doesn’t have a key yet.”
“I’m willing to take that chance,” says Kit, nuzzling my ear. And even though we’re only in Windsor for forty-eight hours before heading back on the road, they’re the happiest days we have all summer.
Before long, it’s nearly autumn, weeks before my first term at Oxford University begins, and the movie premiere and book launch are finally here.
It’s what all this touring has been leading up to—to make sure that when the public watches two actors playing us on-screen, that they’re already familiar with who Kit and I really are.
That when they read the book, they picture us, not strangers they’ve never given a shit about.