Chapter Twenty-Three
“Henrietta, are you surprised that His Majesty is rushing into a second marriage so soon after finalizing his divorce with Her Majesty Queen Helene?”
“Well, it has only been weeks, but after all we’ve learned about their marriage in the past sixteen months, it’s fair to say that they’ve been married in name only for years—possibly for the majority of their union.
Her Majesty has already publicly moved on with the Duke of York, which is as scandalous a match as there is, in my opinion, and with all His Majesty has been through since the bombing, surely we as a country can allow him this happiness in marrying the woman he has apparently loved since he was a teenager. ”
“So you see this as a happy ending to a decades-long love story?”
“I do. Not to speak ill of our queen or of the marriage that produced our beloved Princess Mary, but while they may be royalty, we must remember that Their Majesties are also human. And it has been clear from the moment we found out about Evangeline that His Majesty has been leading a life outside the public eye, one he cherishes a great deal. We simply did not know how much until now.”
“Do we have any details of the wedding yet?”
“Buckingham Palace has released a statement saying that a small civil ceremony will take place in the ‘near future,’ and there is no word yet as to which titles, if any, Ms. Bright will take.”
“Considering what the country thought of Laura Bright little more than a year ago, what should we expect the public reaction to be?”
“It’s hard to say. The stigma against mental illness will never go away completely, especially coupled with the heinous act Ms. Bright committed when she wasn’t in her right mind—”
“Trying to drown four-year-old Evangeline in a bathtub.”
“Yes, if you’d like to be crass about it. But as we know, she received years of in-patient treatment and is still under the care of doctors to this day, and she was not charged with a crime. Paranoid schizophrenia is a complex mental illness with many facets—”
“And is it not controversial, having a queen with such a…complicated history?”
“Of course it is, and to imply otherwise is naive at best. But I would certainly not wish to be judged by the entire world for the single worst moment of my life, and yet Laura Bright is risking exactly that by marrying the man she has loved for decades, despite knowing it will put her in an unfriendly spotlight for the rest of recorded history. That alone tells me all I need to know about how much they love each other, and I for one hope they are able to finally have their happy ending. Or happy beginning, as it is.”
“But what about the legal implications of such a marriage?”
“I don’t see the problem. Henry VIII saw to it nearly five hundred years ago that our kings and queens could divorce, if they so choose, and Ms. Bright has never married. Or, as far as we know, had a relationship with anyone other than His Majesty.”
“Yes, but this is more a question of succession—a game of heirs and thrones, if you will. With Princess Mary and Evangeline born on the same day, would a union between His Majesty and Laura Bright not throw the current line of succession into question?”
“Ah, I see. After His Majesty and Ms. Bright marry, yes, Evangeline would legally be legitimized. But the line of succession excludes someone in Evangeline’s position from being placed in line without an act of Parliament, something that, as much as we all love Evangeline, I highly doubt would be passed anytime soon, barring another royal crisis. ”
“I see. So regardless of which girl was born first, the line of succession will not change?”
“I…well, now that you’ve brought it up, I must admit this isn’t something I’d given much thought. But should Evangeline have any legitimate children, those children would be automatically placed in the line of succession, as would any legitimate child born of royal blood.”
“And if Evangeline is older than Princess Mary?”
“Well. That would certainly make things interesting, wouldn’t it?”
—ITV News’s interview with Henrietta Smythe, 10 September 2024
By the time our Range Rover pulls up the gravel drive and stops at the entrance to Windsor Castle, it’s nearly four in the morning, and my parents are waiting for us beneath the awning, their faces knit with unspeakable worry.
“Evie,” says my mother, sweeping me into her arms the moment I plant my feet on the drive. “Are you all right?”
I shake my head and cling to her, unstable as I am after hours of questioning and interviews from both Scotland Yard and MI5.
Though Kit, Tibby, and I were only inside Rosie’s townhouse for eight minutes, I’ve gone over every single detail so many times that those eight minutes are seared into my memory now, and everything else—even the cool predawn breeze—feels unreal.
Like I’ll be stuck in the last moments of Rosie’s life for the rest of mine, no matter where I am.
“It’s been a long night,” says Kit tiredly as he climbs out after me, refusing to leave my side.
There were nearly two horrible hours when we were separated at the start of questioning, when I did nothing but request a lawyer and stare at the wall as tears streamed down my face, and I silently prayed to whatever deity I could think of that somehow, someway, Rosie would survive.
But something Kit or Tibby said, either to the police or the familiar MI5 agents who soon joined the investigation, must have cleared us of suspicion, because we were reunited in time for Singh to arrive and inform us that Rosie was really, truly gone.
“The police treated you fairly?” says the low, rumbling voice of my father, and Kit nods.
“There was some trouble at the start,” he admits. “Whoever did it sent a…er, bouquet and some chocolates we suspect were laced with poison, and they did so under Evan’s name.”
My mom hugs me tighter before letting me go. “We heard,” she says, giving me a once-over. I’m still in the awful scarlet gown, though the oversized train is now wrapped around my bare shoulders like a shawl. “Singh said he sorted it out, though?”
“He did,” says Tibby, joining us from the front of the Range Rover. “They’re gathering footage from Rosie’s security system to find out more about the delivery, since she didn’t leave the house after her morning walk. But that’s all he was able to pass on to us before they let us go.”
Alexander curses quietly. “The palace lawyers are on it,” he promises. “And the police have agreed to a media blackout regarding your involvement. We’ll sort this all out before the press can hurl any fresh allegations.”
I don’t care about any of that. I should, probably, but somehow getting accused of terrorism and trying to murder my own father has numbed me to any other accusations, especially when they’re so blatantly false.
“Rosie’s dead,” I say—the first time I’ve spoken the words out loud.
“Ben was behind it. I know he was. The bouquet—there was a gerbera daisy, exactly like the ones he sent me—and Guy Fawkes—John Phillip Michaels—he’s dead, too.
It’s not a coincidence. It can’t be. He’s tying up loose ends, and Rosie’s one of them. ”
My mother and father exchange a look. “We spoke to Singh as soon as they released you,” says Alexander. “And he agrees that that’s the most likely scenario. We all do, Evie. The problem is—”
“Evidence,” I say with a heavy sigh, as if the word is escaping me like air from a deflating balloon. “But how are we supposed to find any if he keeps using other people and covering his tracks? He killed Rosie. He can’t just get away with—”
A pair of headlights flashes at the gate, and we all look as another Range Rover approaches. Confused, I glance at Kit, but horror slowly dawns on his face, and it takes me a moment to catch up.
There’s only one member of the family with the nerve to come home at four o’clock in the morning. And if she’s been partying since the premiere…
“You didn’t have to wait up,” says Maisie as she opens her own door.
Her heels hang from the tips of her fingers, and her hair is slightly mussed as she steps onto the gravel drive barefoot.
“Kit, Evan—where on earth have you two been? The entire audience was buzzing about where you’d run off to after the premiere, and do you know who they asked?
Me. Again and again, like I’m your bloody minder. ”
Maisie doesn’t know. Wherever she’s been, no one has bothered to text her. No one’s told her that her lifelong best friend died tonight.
“Maisie…” says Alexander when it becomes apparent no one else is going to speak.
“Daddy, I’m an adult,” she says as she picks her way across the gravel to the smooth stone walkway. “I can stay out as late as I want.”
“It’s not that,” says Kit, his voice thick. This must be enough of a hint to catch Maisie’s attention, because she immediately looks at him, her brow furrowed.
“Then what is it?” she says. “Is it Thaddeus? Because he’s back at his hotel, and we didn’t do anything. We just went to a few after-parties and a club or two, nothing outrageous. Nothing for the press to get their knickers in a—”
“It’s Rosie,” I say with as much gentleness as I can muster, because it shouldn’t be Kit.
It shouldn’t be Alexander. The news won’t be any easier to hear from them, and they’re both already on shaky ground with her.
But my so-called relationship with my sister is completely torched. “She—she’s gone.”
Maisie stares at me for a terrible moment that seems to twist in on itself like a fun house mirror, the world between us distorting until nothing makes sense anymore.
“Rosie?” she says at last, the ghost of a scoff in her voice.
“What are you talking about? She hasn’t gone anywhere.
You were yelling at me this morning about—about—”
“I’m sorry, Mais,” says Kit quietly, and he reaches out to touch her, only for her to rip her arm away. “We think Ben poisoned her. There’s an investigation, and—”
“What are you saying?” says Maisie shakily, and she drops her heels on the ground. “Rosie isn’t gone. She’s not—bloody hell, Kit, what are you saying?”
Kit’s throat constricts, and one look tells me he’s struggling to hold himself together. “Rosie—” he tries, but his voice breaks, and even in the low light, I can see the tears shining in his puffy eyes.
“Rosie is dead,” I manage thickly, because there’s no other way to say it now.
“She called me at the premiere when she heard about Michaels’s death.
She was afraid Ben was coming after her, and so Kit, Tibby, and I headed over to her place to—to see her.
But it was too late. There was a bouquet—roses and a daisy, just like the ones Ben sends me—and a half-eaten box of chocolates.
As soon as we saw the flowers, we tried to get her out of there, but…
the chocolates must have been poisoned, because she seized, and…
everyone did everything they could. They worked on her for—for a really long time.
But…” Now my voice catches, and I take a deep breath.
“I’m so sorry, Maisie. She didn’t make it. ”
My sister stares at me like I’m something so nightmarishly surreal that she can’t comprehend what she’s looking at, and I know that feeling.
I felt it the day I discovered why my mother lost custody of me, and I felt it when I saw Ingrid’s unrecognizable body next to mine in the bombing.
I felt it tonight, too, seeing Rosie lying there with her eyes open, staring at nothing with pink foam at the corners of her mouth, and—
I squeeze my eyes shut and push the mental image away, even though I know it won’t go far. And that’s when I feel the sharp sting against my cheek.
A slap. Maisie slapped me.
“You’re lying,” she snarls, but she’s trembling now as she bends over to pick up her shoes. “You’re all lying. Whatever this is—it isn’t funny. It isn’t funny.”
She turns to Alexander, who leans heavily on his cane, but when he grimaces and says nothing, I can see both the hope and fury die in her eyes.
“Daddy,” she says, and there’s a note of pleading in her voice. “It’s not true. Rosie would never—she can’t—”
Maisie cuts herself off like she’s choking on the words, her shoulders shaking with grief as reality sets in. Kit reaches for her once more, but she jerks away yet again.
“Don’t touch me,” she gasps, doubling over as if someone’s punched her in the gut. “Don’t—bloody—”
And then she’s running across the sharp gravel, to the immaculately kept grass and into the dark garden beyond. Kit makes a move to go after her, but Alexander shakes his head.
“Let her go,” he says to Kit, even as he gestures for one of her PPOs lingering nearby to follow. “She’ll come to us when she’s ready.”
But as I watch her silhouette disappear into the unsettling shadows of Windsor Castle, I can’t imagine a time Maisie will ever be ready to accept that Rosie is gone.
And I’m sure—as sure as I am that tonight will live in my memory for the rest of my life—that Maisie will never, ever forgive me for this.