Chapter Thirty-four
We at the Regal Record have exclusively learned that while His Majesty fights for his life, Laura Bright, his reported mistress, is treating the King’s private apartment as her own—and even sleeping in his bed.
While one might argue that this is nothing short of expected for a woman who’s spent more than two decades chipping away at the marriage between the King and Queen, to do so while His Majesty remains hospitalized in a critical state is perhaps Laura’s most audacious move yet. Palace insiders claim that even after the revelation that her daughter, Evangeline, is working with the Army of the British Republic, Laura has insisted on spending much of her time ordering around the household staff, in anticipation of His Majesty’s recovery.
“She’s delusional,” says an anonymous royal insider. “Maybe it’s her illness, but she really is acting like she’ll be queen someday.”
As our country is thrown into chaos in the wake of the terrorist attack that claimed the lives of eight people, one would hope that Ms Bright might spare us all the reminder that a home-wrecker remains at Windsor Castle—and that the British people are paying for her royal accommodations.
—The Regal Record,18 January 2024
YOU’RE RIGHT ABOUT BEN.
As Maisie hands me the tablet, her voice ricochets in my head like a bullet, and I examine the picture on the screen. Her supposed proof doesn’t look like much—just a piece of metal no bigger than a dime taped to the inside of a hollowed-out book. Hardly irrefutable evidence that Ben enlisted someone inside the palace to leak secrets. Or potentially try to kill us.
“What’s this?” I say, zooming in, but I still can’t identify it.
Instead of answering, my sister swipes to another photograph, this time of the same kind of device concealed in the folds of a red velvet curtain. A third image shows one inside a lampshade, and then one more nestled in a wooden crevice that might be part of an armoire.
“I don’t get it,” I say as she swipes through several more. “What am I looking at?”
Maisie huffs. “I don’t know how it’s possible that your skull keeps getting thicker with age, but clearly you’re a medical marvel.”
She stops at a photograph of an entire room—my sitting room. It looks like a crime scene, with numbered markers seemingly everywhere, and from this angle, I can see the open cabinet where security found the paint thinner. The thought of anyone searching my apartment makes my skin crawl, but even amidst the feeling of utter violation, something else clicks.
“Are these…?” I swipe back to look at the last picture. “Are these bugs?”
“If by ‘bugs,’ you mean covert transmitters and listening devices, then yes,” says Maisie curtly. “They found no fewer than twenty in your apartment.”
“Twen…?” The word dies halfway off my tongue, and suddenly I feel like I’m falling through the air at a tremendous speed, as every single one of my internal organs finds a new place to settle. “Maisie—”
“Someone’s been spying on you,” she says. “And I’m positive that Ben had something to do with it.”
“How?” I say in a choked voice, cycling through the pictures again. “How can you possibly connect this to Ben?”
“Because he used to do it to me,” she says, and at my startled look, she waves off my concern. “Nothing untoward, of course. We were children. We saw these devices used in some film, I think, and we begged our parents for a set to play with. We used to hide them in the nursery—try to eavesdrop on our nannies, and even sometimes each other. It was fun,” she added defensively. “We didn’t have secrets then, of course.”
My mouth is still dry, and it takes me a moment to speak. “And you think…you think he’s behind this, too? You can prove it?”
“Well—I mean, no, I can’t prove it,” she says. “Not unless there are fingerprints on any of them. But he was here last week, wasn’t he? He could’ve planted them then, or maybe he really does have someone in the palace working for him, and they did it ages ago. If he’s been listening in, it would explain the leaks, wouldn’t it?”
My mind is racing, and I shake my head, as if that’ll somehow force things into neat little boxes so I can begin to make sense of it all. “I never talked to anyone about your injuries, though. Or about Thaddeus’s roses, or any other secrets the Regal Record made public. I don’t think Tibby ever brought them up, either. I don’t even think she knows.”
Maisie considers me for a long moment. “You’re absolutely certain? There’s no way you could’ve…I don’t know, mentioned it to Kit, perhaps?”
“Maybe.” I frown. “But I really don’t think any of it came from…”
I pause as a horrifying thought swims to the forefront of my mind, as if it’s been there all this time, waiting for me to notice.
“Maisie,” I say slowly. “Are these just listening devices? Or are they speakers, too?”
Maisie takes the tablet and swipes to another picture. “Most are listening devices, but Stephens said that the ones that look like these are tiny speakers.”
Every inch of me freezes into place, and I stare at the image until it’s nothing but a blur of colors.
Speakers. I’ve had speakers in my apartment. Maybe for days, but possibly for weeks. Or longer.
My throat is tight, and I gasp for air, barely managing enough to speak. “Maisie—I’ve been hearing things—voices—”
“You’re what?” she says, startled.
“For weeks, ever since Sandringham. I thought they were real. Or—that they were in my head, I mean,” I say. “But I think—I think it was Ben. You’re sure this is something he’ddo?”
She nods, her eyebrows knit as she zooms in on the device again. “Positive. It’s exactly his style.”
I reach for one of the miniature bottles of water stored in the center console, my thoughts reeling. It was Ben. It was Ben this entire time, whispering my name, freaking me out, making me think I was having hallucinations—
“The day of the bombing, the voices told me I was going to die,” I say, struggling to get the words out. “Kit was there—Idon’t think he heard them, but I told him, and—I was a mess.”
“The day of the bombing?” she says, with a hint of skepticism. “You’re sure?”
“That’s not the kind of thing you forget,” I mutter. “But I think…I think Ben was trying to scare me. To make me believe I was losing my mind, or—that maybe I was showing signs of schizophrenia.”
Maisie scowls so deeply that she looks almost like a cartoon. “That’s ghastly. Why on earth would he do that?”
“I don’t know,” I say, slumping against the seat as I twist off the plastic cap. “Why is he sending me flowers? Why did he give me that photo album? Why did he tell me it should’ve been me? Why is he trying to convince me I’m having auditory hallucinations? It doesn’t make sense.”
Maisie takes a water for herself, and she drinks half of it before slowly setting her bottle down. “Yes, it does. He’s trying to discredit you. No one believes the mad girl, do they? That’s why he felt he could say those things to you—because you’ve already been cracking, and don’t deny it. I’ve known something was wrong for ages, but I thought it was—well, you know, getting shot. PTSD. That sort of thing.”
“The voices started before then,” I say, thinking back. “The morning you tried to get me and Kit to go hunting with you—the morning of the shooting. That’s when they began.”
Maisie sighs. “Well, it certainly fits the timeline, doesn’t it? Of Ben lurking about and being…Ben.”
“But why?” I press. “What’s the point? No one cares what I think or do. Why bother with all this in the first place?”
It’s the same question I’ve been asking myself for months. But even now, with so many new pieces of the puzzle snapping into place, I still can’t see the bigger picture—I still don’t understand why Ben is torturing me. And I’m beginning to wonder if I ever will.
“I don’t know,” says Maisie. “And neither do you, so let’s focus on what we do know, shall we? We do know that yesterday, someone poured turpentine all throughout Daddy’s apartment, including his bedroom, and set it on fire. But who was it?”
“Not me,” I say automatically, and Maisie rolls her eyes again.
“Yes, obviously. I’m not accusing you. Honestly, Evangeline, you’re too bloody sensitive sometimes.”
“I’m not—” I pause and sip my water. It isn’t worth the fight. “You really believe me?”
“Of course I do,” she says with a faint wheeze. “The fire started in Daddy’s apartment, and your mother’s the only one staying there at the moment. You have no reason to hurt her. If anything, you go a bit feral whenever anyone so much as insinuates that she’s not the single greatest human being on the planet—”
“You think whoever did this wanted to hurt my mom?” I say, stunned. But now that she’s said it, it makes perfect sense, and a wave of nausea hits me.
“Well, yes,” says Maisie. “I suppose they could’ve been coming after me, considering how close my rooms are to his, but it seems a rather roundabout way of assassinating someone, doesn’t it?”
My mind is racing again, and I take another sip of water in hopes of calming my roiling stomach. “If they were going after my mom, why yesterday? Because she finally came back from the hospital? Was it their only opportunity? But it can’t be, not when she’s been staying at the castle for weeks. The whole staff knew. The family, everyone—”
I freeze, and Maisie leans in, her blue eyes bright. “What?” she says. “I know that look, Evan. What is it? Tell me.”
“I—” I swallow painfully. “You’re not going to like it.”
“I don’t bloody care,” she says, breathless again. “Spit it out already.”
The last thing I want to do is reignite the fight we had yesterday, but I don’t have a choice. Not really. Besides, it all makes sense, and I hate myself a little for not seeing it sooner.
“When my mom and I got back from the hospital yesterday…” I hesitate again. “I ran into Rosie, right by Alexander’s apartment. My mom went inside, and…Rosie asked me about her.”
“What did she say?” says Maisie, and I can hear the familiar defensiveness in her voice already.
“Something about how she had no idea that my mom was staying in Alexander’s suite. That she’d thought she’d gone back to Virginia, and…” I take another sip of my water, but it does nothing to alleviate the dryness in my throat. “I don’t know. The whole thing was weird. She almost seemed guilty, and she kept saying she had no idea, but…”
I trail off. Maisie isn’t looking at me anymore, and there’s a strange expression on her face as she types something into the tablet. A moment later, the Regal Record appears. The latest headline announces the fire, and as Maisie skims past the article that follows, I spot my name alongside ahistory of arson. And even though I should expect it—even though I know I’ve already been linked to the Abr, and no one in the country will give me the benefit of the doubt now—the reality of what’s happening outside our isolated palace bubble hits me like a brick wall.
Everyone hates me. The Daily Sun, the Regal Record, every troll on social media—no doubt they’re claiming that I’m the one who set the fire that could’ve killed my sister. Worse, I have no defense except my word. Because I was there that night. The turpentine was in my room. And even though I know it’s all some twisted setup, most of the world already believes I was involved in the bombing, and I’m coldly certain that they won’t think twice before accepting this as the truth, too.
It doesn’t matter that I didn’t do it. No amount of innocence will ever wipe the slate clean, and for as long as I live, these whispers will follow me around, one more black mark on an already scandalous list. Treasonous list, now, with the bombing and two attempted murders to add to my count.
At last Maisie turns the tablet toward me again, and I see the headline she was searching for, time-stamped shortly after midnight.
While Alexander Fights for His Life, Laura Plays Wife
I blink once, twice, certain I’m reading it wrong, or at the very least making connections that aren’t really there. But at the same time, I know I’m not—for exactly the same reason that, even though this article is made up of rumors and anonymous sources that add up to nothing but hot air, it happens to be right. That all the articles on the Regal Record happen to be right.
“Did you ever tell Rosie and Gia about my mom staying at Windsor?” I say, choosing my words carefully despite my racing pulse.
“No,” says Maisie, though she’s already pulled out her phone and is scrolling through what looks like a group text. “No, I—no, I never talked to them about Laura. Even at Klosters, we all avoided the subject. No one wanted to upset Mummy.”
“Did your mother mention it during the interview?” I press. “She didn’t, right? I would’ve remembered that.”
“I don’t think she did, either,” says Maisie, her voice slightly panicked now as she continues to scroll through her texts. “Evan…it can’t…Rosie wouldn’t…”
“Maybe not,” I say, because as much as I dislike her, I can’t imagine her trying to burn my mother alive. “But if there’s even a chance that she knows who did…”
Maisie’s eyes flutter shut, and her throat works convulsively, like she’s trying not to cry. “It’s just a coincidence,” she says. “She would never.”
I stay silent, partially because I really am afraid of starting another fight, but also because I can tell she doesn’t need my help coming to the inevitable conclusion. And sure enough, when she opens her eyes again, they’re red and watery, but there’s a look of determination on her face, too.
“We need to talk to her,” says Maisie, her wheeze back now. “Even if she has nothing to do with any of it, even if it’s…it’s nothing, maybe…”
“She could’ve seen someone else lurking around,” I say. “Or maybe she heard something while we were in your room. Anything’s possible.”
“Anything’s possible,” she echoes, but there’s no real feeling behind it. She plucks a tissue from the console and dabs at her eyes. “She’ll deny it all, though. Even if she has vital information, she won’t admit it, not if she thinks our friendship is on the line.”
I shrug. “Then we’ll just have to find another way to get her to talk.”
The Range Rover begins to slow, and when I glance out the window, my heart skips a beat. We’re on a residential street now, with a row of neat white townhouses on either side and expensive vehicles parked along the pavement. And just up ahead, standing by a wrought-iron gate, is a boy with a familiar head of wavy dark hair.
“How?” says Maisie miserably. “The more we push, the more scared she’ll be.”
Our driver stops in front of the gate, and even though it takes everything I have, I look back at Maisie and squeeze her hand.
“I think I have an idea,” I say, and I flash her a reassuring smile before opening the door and leaping onto the sidewalk, where Kit is waiting for me with open arms.