Chapter Thirty-three
A fire has broken out in the private royal apartments of Windsor Castle, the main residence of His Majesty, Princess Mary, and Evangeline Bright. The status of the royal family is currently unknown.
—Breaking news alert from the BBC, 5:14 a.m., 18 January 2024
RATHER THAN YET ANOTHER TRIP to the hospital, which our protection officers deem unsafe, Maisie, my mother, and I are escorted by half the city’s police to Apartment 1A in Kensington Palace, a sprawling brick maze of a manor that borders a massive park in the heart of London.
“I’ll come inside with you,” says my mom, a hint of nervousness in her voice as we pass through the gate and into a dark courtyard. “But once you’re both settled in, I think I’ll head back to the hospital.”
While the thought of her leaving sets my already-frayed nerves on edge, I don’t argue. It’s no secret why she doesn’t want to be here—Apartment 1A is where Helene and Nicholas have been secretly living together since the summer, and after the interview Helene gave to the BBC, I can’t blame my mom for not feeling welcome.
Both Helene and Nicholas are waiting for us beneath the inky predawn sky in front of their apartment, which is really a four-story, twenty-room wing of the palace that no one could ever seriously compare to the apartments in Windsor Castle—or any other actual apartment in London. One of the protection officers helps Maisie out of the car, her bandaged arm held tight against her chest, and Helene hurries toward her in a flood of tears.
“Oh, my darling,” she cries. “Look at you. The doctors have already arrived, and we’ve arranged for you to be treated in one of the reception rooms.”
“I’m perfectly all right, Mummy,” says Maisie, but her voice is hoarse, the burn on her forearm is swathed in gauze, and there are still smudges of ash on her cheeks. “This is all completely unnecessary.”
“I’ll believe that once the doctors have said so themselves,” says Helene, and she gently guides Maisie inside, leaving my mom and me behind without a hint of acknowledgment.
Nicholas lingers, however, and he clears his throat in the awkward silence. “Laura,” he says with a nod. “Evangeline. We’re relieved you’re both all right. Have you been seen to?”
“I’m fine,” says my mother before I can jump in. “But the paramedics were concerned about the amount of smoke Evan breathed in. She went after Maisie,” she explains, giving me a hard look. “Straight toward the flames, like the entire building wasn’t already looking for her.”
My face grows warm. “I know, Mom. I’m sorry.”
“We’ll make sure she’s examined, too,” says Nicholas, ushering us both through the double doors. “That was brave of you, Evan. Reckless, but brave.”
“Maisie would’ve done the same for me,” I say, but that almost definitely isn’t true. And judging by the quirk of Nicholas’s left eyebrow, he’s thinking the same thing.
As we walk across the marble floor of the foyer, warm light spills out from one of the reception rooms, and the crown molding over the arched doorways casts strange shadows on the walls, making this feel like some kind of fever dream. But my mom takes my hand, and I’m painfully aware that it’s all very, very real.
She stays with me in the makeshift clinic until one of the doctors—a blond woman with a sleek bun—does a thorough exam, draws some blood, and declares that the worst I’ll have to deal with is a temporary cough. Relieved, my mom kisses my forehead.
“If anything happens, let Jenkins know, and I’ll come back immediately,” she promises. “You’re sure you’re all right if I go?”
I nod. “I need to get some sleep anyway,” I say, even though I want her to stay. But now that she knows I’m okay, I can tell she’s desperate to check on Alexander. “I’ll visit the hospital later today.”
“Only if you’re feeling up to it.” She gives me one more lingering hug. “I love you, Evie.”
“Love you, too, Mom,” I say. And as I watch her with a heavy lump of unexplained dread in the pit of my stomach, she slips back into the foyer and the darkness beyond.
While my exam was relatively quick, Maisie is subjected to a battery of tests on the other side of the room. My eyelids grow heavy as the adrenaline finally begins to wear off, and I can hear the low murmur of concerned voices while they examine her chest X-ray.
“…need plenty of oxygen and rest,” says Gupta. “We’ll reevaluate her progress this afternoon, and should there be any concerning changes—”
“I’m fine,” wheezes Maisie, who’s once again holding an oxygen mask to her face. “Really. Please don’t put me in hospital. Everyone already thinks I’m weak—”
“Darling, if you need further treatment, then we’ll do whatever we must,” says Helene. “But I’d rather she not be exposed to the public unless absolutely necessary.”
“Agreed, ma’am,” says the protection officer who brought us bandages the night before. “I’ll have a team secure King Edward VII’s Hospital just in case.”
“Evan,” says Nicholas quietly, and I jerk my head up so fast that I think I sprain something. My uncle stands beside the antique chaise I’m curled up on, his mouth pinched and his expression haggard. “Why don’t I show you to one of the guest rooms?”
“Thanks,” I say, “but I’d rather stay here.”
Nicholas smiles faintly, like he was expecting this. “Then I’ll have a pillow and blanket brought in for you. And some water,” he adds, as on the other side of the room, Helene tries to coax a miserable Maisie to drink.
I don’t know why he’s being so nice to me, but I nod, too tired to really question it. Maybe it’s guilt, or maybe with Alexander fighting for his life, Nicholas has decided it’s his job to step up and make sure I don’t suddenly keel over. Either way, I thank him again, and when the pillow and blanket and water arrive, I drain the glass and make myself comfortable, only intending to doze.
Instead, I wake up a disorienting amount of time later, to the sound of Helene’s gasp. “You’re certain? You’re absolutely certain?”
“Yes, ma’am,” says a deep voice I recognize, but can’t place. “My team took pictures of the scene, if you’d like to see them.”
I sit up groggily and rub my eyes. Gray winter light streams through the sheer curtains in the reception room, and as I glance around, I notice Maisie lying in a bed twenty feet away as a nurse checks her blood pressure. But even though Maisie should be asleep—we should both be asleep—her eyes are open, and she’s watching me.
“Hey,” I say softly. “How are you feel—”
Before I can finish, a series of curses echoes through the foyer, growing louder as the click of heels approach. “After all we did—after everything she’s put us through—”
“Ma’am—” says the familiar voice, but suddenly Helene appears in the arched doorway, the fury on her face so consuming that for a split second, she looks like a completely different person.
“You,”she growls, rounding on me. “You did this.”
“What?” I say, sitting up so fast that I’m light-headed.
“You set the fire,” accuses Helene as she advances on me. “You’re the one who nearly killed my daughter.”
My mouth drops open. “I had nothing to do with—”
“Palace security found accelerant hidden in your sitting room,” she says. “The same accelerant used to start the fire.”
I stare at her, gaping, as a man I recognize from the morning council meetings appears with a tablet clutched in his hand. Stephens—the royal family’s head of security.
“Turpentine,” he clarifies, angling his screen to show me a picture of several bottles of paint thinner stored in a cabinet in my sitting room. “The brand matches the supply used by Ms. Bright in His Majesty’s private apartment over the past few weeks.”
“I—” For a moment, I forget how to breathe. “I don’t know how those got in my room, I swear. I didn’t put them there. I don’t paint—”
“Then are you saying your mother is the one responsible for the fire?” says Helene viciously.
“Of course not,” I protest. “Why would she do that? Why would either of us do that?”
“Why don’t you tell me, Evangeline?” says Helene. “Every time something dreadful happens lately, it all seems to come back to you, doesn’t it? Maisie’s protection officer said you were in my daughter’s room last night. You would’ve had ample opportunity to splash turpentine around her bedroom—”
“I wasn’t anywhere near her bedroom,” I argue. “I would never—”
“Actually, ma’am,” says Stephens abruptly, we believe the fire started in His Majesty’s bedroom and spread into Her Royal Highness’s.”
Helene lets out a humorless gasp of a laugh. “Lovely. Was it Laura after all? Have we been hosting an entire family of arsonists? No one’s forgotten why you were expelled from your last boarding school,” she adds, blue eyes narrowed at me. “You certainly have experience with this sort of thing, don’t you? Perhaps your mother asked you for help, and you were all too eager to offer it.”
I stand then, toe to toe with Helene, and even though I’m barefoot and more than half a foot shorter than her, I refuse to cower. “My mom and I didn’t have anything to do with this. We were both in my apartment all night, and we didn’t leave. Aren’t there cameras all over Windsor? Can’t you check the footage and—”
“There are none in the private apartments, at the request of Their Majesties,” says Stephens, and his uncomfortable glance at Helene tells me exactly why. Because during her years of sneaking around with Nicholas, neither of them wanted to leave any evidence behind. And Alexander undoubtedly went along with it—probably out of guilt, or a misguided attempt to keep the peace.
And now I have no way of proving I didn’t try to barbecue my own sister.
I let out a choking laugh, though while I mean for it to be sardonic, it comes out as more hysterical than anything. “Great. Terrific,” I say, glaring at my stepmother. “I can’t say anything to change your mind, can I? I could find whoever did this and have them confess in front of you, and somehow you’d still be convinced that it was me. But it wasn’t. I would never hurt Maisie. She’s my sister—”
“Half sister,” corrects Helene sharply.
“She’s my family,” I say. “And that actually means something to me. I am not the source of all your problems, Helene. I’m sorry that my existence hurts you. I’m sorry my parents made some pretty awful choices, and you had to pay the price. But I didn’t do this. My mother didn’t do this. And the longer you insist that we did, the longer the real culprit is still out there, and the longer you’re the one putting your entire family in danger by refusing to believe anything but the worst in me.”
She stands there, cold as ice, for the better part of ten seconds. “Get out,” she snarls.
“Mummy,” says Maisie pleadingly. “Evan didn’t do this. Someone must have planted the bottles, or maybe Laura stored them there ages ago, and—”
“Stay out of this, Maisie,” orders Helene, her tone as hard as diamonds. To my dismay, Maisie falls silent, but I can see her staring a hole into the back of her mother’s head. “You, Evangeline, will leave my home and stay away from my family. You’ve been nothing but a plague on us since the day you were born, and if you ever come near us again, I will go straight to the Daily Sun and tell them you were the one who started the fire.”
I shouldn’t be surprised—there’s no low Helene won’t stoop to, apparently, though I still stare at her in disbelief. “But I didn’t,” I insist. “It wasn’t me.”
“And yet all evidence points directly to you. What a terrible coincidence, if it truly wasn’t.” The honeyed venom in her voice is back, and a shiver runs through me like I’ve stepped outside into the winter chill. “You’ve already given the world plenty of reasons to hate you, Evangeline, but I am more than happy to offer them another. Now go, before I have you dragged out by your damn ear.”
I swallow hard, and for a moment, I think I might cry, but I refuse to give Helene the satisfaction. Maisie looks furious, too, but she doesn’t speak up again. And Stephens stares at his feet, still clutching his tablet and clearly uninterested in correcting his queen—or maybe he thinks I did it, too. Maybe they all do, and there’s nothing I’ll ever be able to say to get out of this one.
Fine. If Helene wants to burn it all down, then so be it.
“No matter how much the people hate me,” I say through gritted teeth, “it’ll never make them love you again. You will always be the heartless monster who left the King for his own brother—who lied to the people about your marriage for decades, and who hasn’t visited her husband a single time since he was nearly blown to pieces. That’s your legacy. That’s what the world will remember about you. And there is nothing—nothing you can do to change it.”
For a split second, Helene looks like I’ve slapped her, and part of me wishes I had. But as she opens her mouth—maybe to retort, maybe to tell Stephens to throw me into the courtyard by my hair—I slip past her and head toward the archway, refusing to look anyone in the eye. Even Maisie.
The entrance hall isn’t empty, like I expect. Instead, Nicholas stands near the front door, along with another familiar man in an equally familiar suit. Suraj Singh.
Though I’m still in my pajamas, which carry more than a faint whiff of smoke, I hold my head high as I stride toward the exit, intent on ignoring them completely. But as I approach, Nicholas moves between me and the double doors.
“Evangeline,” he says, barely audible over Helene’s furious screeches echoing from the reception room, her words mercifully indecipherable. “Please accept my apologies for Her Majesty’s behavior. We—she’s had quite a scare this morning, and I’m afraid with everything else that’s happened as of late, she isn’t handling it well.”
“I don’t care,” I say coldly. “She’s your problem, not mine. I need to go.”
“You’re welcome to stay,” he says, but we both know that’s a lie. I give him a look, and he grimaces. “Well—at least let me escort you to Clarence House. Mother has plenty of room, and…”
He falters again at the expression on my face, and it takes all the effort I have left in me to be polite. “Thank you,” I manage, “but I don’t need your help. I’m going to the hospital to see my mom and Alexander.”
“And after?” he says. “Perhaps I can ask the staff to ready Nottingham Cottage, or a room at Buckingham Palace, or any of the other properties nearby—”
“I’ll figure something out,” I say. “I just—I need to go.”
Nicholas looks oddly crestfallen, but he nods. “There’s a car waiting for you outside,” he says. “It’ll take you anywhere you want to go. And if there’s anything you need…”
“Thanks,” I say again, barely able to force myself to speak. But while he, at least, doesn’t seem to believe I started the fire, there’s no doubt in my mind that he’ll follow Helene’s lead, no matter where it might take him.
The cobblestones are icy against my bare feet as I step into the courtyard, and sure enough, there’s a Range Rover idling several yards from the door. I’m halfway there when a sharp pebble digs into my heel, and I wince, pausing long enough to rub my foot against my other leg to dislodge the tiny rock.
In those few seconds, Singh appears in front of me, his hands in his pockets and his breath visible in the freezing morning air. I try to step around him, but he moves with me, blocking my way again.
“I don’t want to hear it,” I say sharply. “I didn’t set the fire. I was in my room the entire night, and I had nothing to do with—”
“I never suspected you,” says Singh in an infuriatingly neutral tone that doesn’t give anything away, but it’s enough to steal my indignation right out from under me.
“Do you know who did it, then?” I say warily.
“Haven’t a clue,” he admits, “but I am certain it wasn’t you—or as certain as I can be, given the circumstances. Someone seems desperate to make everyone believe it was you, though, don’t they? And that, to me, is exceptionally curious, especially considering everything else that’s happened lately. Once again, this is all so very, very neat—and so very, very sloppy at the same time.”
I frown. “You think the Abr might’ve been behind this, too?”
“They haven’t taken credit, but the day is young,” he says. “Though I sincerely hope they haven’t breached the palace. If they have…”
I shiver again, and not because of the cold. “I just know it wasn’t me or my mom.”
“And as I said, Miss Bright, I believe you. In fact…” Singh reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and produces a phone. “This belongs to you.”
I take it gingerly, like this, too, might explode in my face. “You’re giving me back my phone?”
“And your laptop, though I’m afraid I haven’t got that in my pocket,” he says with a hint of humor I’m too miserable to appreciate. “They were clean, as you undoubtedly know, other than a stray number under Aoife Marsh’s name.”
“It wasn’t hers?” I say, confused.
“Not unless she’s the owner of a Pizza Express in Derby,” he says, and while this time I should be surprised, I’m not. Of course Kit didn’t give me her real number, and I’m suddenly glad I never used it.
“What about Kit’s phone?” I say as I press the power button. “Was it…?”
“Lord Clarence’s personal items have also been returned to him,” he says. “Other than the emails and messages he exchanged with members of Fox Rex, all of which he shared willingly, we found nothing to connect either of you with the bombing.”
It isn’t until that moment that I realize part of me—a miniscule part, but one that still exists—worried that Kit was lying, and that something on his devices would incriminate him. Maybe both of us. But as I watch my phone boot up, my eyes sting with tears, and I nod mutely.
Kit’s innocent. We’re both innocent. And someone is still coming after us with everything they’ve—he’s—got.
“I took the liberty of adding my direct number to your contacts,” says Singh after it becomes clear I can’t speak. “Not strictly aboveboard, but I thought it would be best if you had an easy way to keep in touch, should anything else pop up. I’m on your side, Evangeline,” he adds. “I believe someone close to the royal family is framing you, with the assistance of the Abr. And whoever it is, I’m as keen to catch them as you are.”
We both know exactly who it is, but all I can manage is another nod as I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. Even if I could form words right now, there’s no use making my case again, not when I don’t have proof. But Singh’s support is an antidote to Helene’s poison, and I almost—almost—believe him.
Singh opens the door to the Range Rover, and a blast of heat emanates from inside. “Keep in touch, Miss Bright,” he says. “This is unlikely to be the end of it, I’m afraid, but if you and I are both lucky, perhaps we might find a way to help each other.”
I have no idea what that means, but he doesn’t elaborate as I climb into the SUV. Without another word, he closes the door behind me, and even though the windows are tinted, I can feel his gaze on me for a long moment before he heads back inside.
Closing my eyes, I try to take a deep breath to calm myself down. My irritated lungs aren’t thrilled with the concept, however, and I end up in the middle of a coughing fit, painfully aware of the driver watching me through the rearview mirror.
“Good morning, Miss Bright,” he says as soon as the coughs subside. “Where would you like to go?”
“The hospital,” I say. “I want to visit my dad.”
He nods, and as he radios in our location, I tug on the seat belt. It locks up before I can pull it all the way across my body, and I mutter to myself, vaguely wondering how this day could possibly get any worse—and that’s when I hear it.
“Evangeline.”
The sound of my name echoes off the brick and stone courtyard, and I clench my jaw. Not again. Not here—not now, not when everything else is falling apart.
“Evangeline.”
As the Range Rover starts to roll down the concrete drive, my name grows louder, and I resist the urge to cover my ears. It won’t help, not when it’s in my head. But without any warning, the driver hits the brakes, and I have to catch myself on the seat in front of me.
“Evangeline!”
This time, when I hear my name, it’s through the door, and I do a double take when I realize that Maisie’s on the other side. She’s breathing heavily, and Helene and Nicholas rush out of Apartment 1A after her, but there’s a determined look in her eye that I know better than to challenge.
“Will you open the bloody door?” she says, exasperated, and I fumble with the handle until it pops open.
“Maisie? What are you—”
“Move,” she orders, and I hastily shift to the other seat. Helene and Nicholas shout Maisie’s name as they hurry across the courtyard, but she ignores them and slams the door shut. “Palace Gardens Terrace, Matthew,” she says to the driver. “You know the number.”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness,” he says, and seconds before Helene and Nicholas reach the Range Rover, we take off, and neither Maisie nor I look back.
It’s only as we pass through the gate and onto the main road that I realize Maisie is clutching a tablet—the same one Stephens was holding minutes earlier. “You should be resting,” I say. “Not—whatever this is.”
“You sound uncannily like Mummy,” she mutters, waking the screen. “And I’m going with you. I would’ve thought that was obvious.”
“Yes, but—why?” I say. Maybe it’s a question I shouldn’t be asking, but I can’t help myself, not after our argument the night before.
“Because,” she says simply, and she hands me the tablet. “You’re right about Ben. And I’ve found proof.”