Chapter Nine
“Henrietta, what is your take on the sudden uptick of activity around Balmoral, where the royal family has been sequestered for the past month?”
“It’s impossible to say for certain, especially with the palace refusing to comment. But we can confirm that at least two helicopters have landed on the grounds in the past hour, and local law enforcement has been called on to close the roads near the royal family’s private Scottish retreat.”
“Could this mean the palace is planning an announcement soon? One that might attract an…unusual amount of press interest?”
“Possibly. Likely, even.”
“And the rumours regarding His Majesty’s declining health?”
“I couldn’t possibly speculate—”
“Of course not. But it wouldn’t be such a leap, would it? After a month of no updates and the secrecy surrounding his medical status, there are certainly signs that a big announcement is coming, are there not?”
“One might suspect such a thing. Whether it has to do with His Majesty…to even speculate, given all the royal family has endured lately, would be utterly uncouth.”
“But surely if there is an announcement coming, the public has the right to know?”
“And they will, when the palace has deemed it time. For now, we wish His Majesty and the royal family good health and continue to support his recovery.”
—ITV News’s interview with royal expert Henrietta Smythe, 2 February 2024
The helicopter flight from Oxford to Balmoral is nearly three hours long.
I spend every second of it with my hand wrapped tightly in Kit’s, and though our headphones allow us to speak, neither of us says much as we watch the United Kingdom pass by beneath us.
I can’t stop thinking about the last time I saw my father—nearly a month ago in a hospital in London, with machines keeping him alive as my mother sat over him, pouring every drop of herself into willing him to stay with her.
Did something happen? Tibby said he was getting better, but she also said she never actually saw him. Was Jenkins telling her the truth? I wouldn’t put it past him to lie to her—to anyone other than family—if it meant keeping my father’s health a secret from the vulturous media.
And if the worst happened…if he’s really gone…
As the helicopter lands in the middle of a Scottish meadow near the gray stone castle of Balmoral, I already see media crews gathering at a blockade at least a mile away.
Have they been there the entire time the royal family has been sequestered here?
Or is something really happening? I don’t have my phone anymore, but Kit seems to read my mind, and the moment we touch down, he’s on his mobile, checking the BBC site for updates.
Nothing but speculation so far. Even that hurts, to see the vampires circling, ready to feed on whatever horrific news is about to change my family forever.
I hug Kit’s arm, taking a deep, shaky breath, and together we hurry across the frozen ground to the nearest entrance of the fairy-tale castle that my grandmother, Constance the Queen Mother, calls home.
Tibby is there to greet us, looking harried despite her dark tweed dress and artfully choppy bob. “I don’t have any information,” she says before I can even ask. “Jenkins won’t allow anyone into the wing until you’ve arrived.”
“What does that mean?” I say, my voice breaking with anxiety. “Are there doctors with him? Is anyone trying to—to—”
I don’t know what I’m asking, but it doesn’t matter.
Tibby repeats herself, gentler this time, and she leads us into the castle at a quick pace I have no trouble keeping up with.
I’ve never been to Balmoral before, but I barely notice the endless maze of rooms we pass, a blur of deep blues and greens and the occasional maroon.
Dark oil paintings line the walls, and I’m already too horrified to feel anything at the sight of the astounding number of mounted deer heads watching us as we dart down the empty corridors.
He can’t be gone. He can’t be. Jenkins would have told me if there’d been any signs of decline. He would have made sure I was here, that I had a chance to say goodbye—
I stop short as we turn down yet another lengthy hallway. This one isn’t empty like the others, though. Twenty feet away, standing in front of a full-length mirror as he adjusts his black suit, is my cousin, nineteen-year-old Prince Benedict of York.
Ben.
He doesn’t look away from the mirror immediately. Instead, he finishes tying his solid black tie, and only then does Ben turn his sharp gaze toward us. Toward me.
“Ah, Kit,” he says, though his eyes are locked on mine. “I was wondering if you were on your way. Maisie’s been asking for you.”
“I’ll stop in to see her once we’ve settled,” says Kit in the most neutral tone I’ve ever heard in my life.
I don’t know how he’s managing—if I try to speak right now, it’ll come out as a squeak or a scream, nothing in between, especially now that we’re face to face with the reason my father is in this state to begin with.
It’s only Kit’s grip on my elbow that stops me from lunging forward and clawing Ben’s eyes out.
That and the anxiety coiled so tightly within me that I can barely breathe.
“I’ll let her know to expect you,” says Ben, his stare still on me. “If you didn’t bring a black suit, I have an extra.”
Confused, I glance at Kit. There’s no way the pair of them can comfortably share clothes, considering Ben is several inches shorter than Kit and built like a reed. But when what Ben is implying hits me, the air leaves my lungs, and it’s all I can do to take one shallow breath after the other.
Kit tilts his head slightly, the barest of acknowledgments at Ben’s verbal knife, and he wraps his arm around my waist. “If you’ll excuse us,” he says, and he continues forward, half carrying me with him.
Ben whistles to himself as we go, and Tibby hurries to open a hidden panel in the hallway.
“This way will be quicker, I think,” she mutters, glaring behind us.
Neither Kit nor I question her as we head inside, and as soon as the thick door slides home, leaving us in a well-tended passageway that’s probably about as secret as Alexander’s middle names, I bury my face in my hands.
“Is he—the black suit—is that because—” I blubber, and Kit pulls me to his chest, where I promptly get his coat wet.
Tibby sniffs. “Benedict knows even less than I do,” she says. “Why you’d believe a word that comes out of his mouth—”
“Tibby’s right,” says Kit, rubbing circles into my back. “He’s just trying to get under your skin.”
“Trying?” says Tibby with a scoff. “He gets off on seeing you like this, Evangeline. The only way we’re going to find out what’s happening with His Majesty is to go see for ourselves, so if you’re quite done…”
Clearing my throat, I pull away enough to wipe my face with my sleeves. “Okay. I’m sorry. Can we—”
But she’s already walking down the passage, her heels clicking with each step.
I bury myself under Kit’s arm as we follow, and when Tibby pops open another panel on the other side of the long passage, it’s into an antechamber with an antique gold bench, four matching chairs, and no fewer than half a dozen PPOs guarding a pair of double doors.
“Miss Bright,” says the nearest one, clearly startled by our appearance. “Er—Lord Clarence, Lady Tabitha. I apologize, but Jenkins was very clear that only Miss Bright be allowed—”
“I’ll wait out here,” says Tibby. My grip tightens on Kit’s hand, and my pounding heart strains against my ribs, trying to break through.
“It’s okay,” says Kit, gently trying to undo my grip. “I’ll be right out here, too.”
But as one of the PPOs unlocks the double doors with an electronic key card, I can’t make myself move. Whatever lies beyond that threshold will define the rest of my life, and I can’t face it. Not without him. If Alexander really is gone…
“Evan?”
Jenkins appears in the gap between the doors now, his expression grave.
The purple circles beneath his eyes say more about the weeks I’ve been gone than words ever could, and his salt-and-pepper beard isn’t as neatly trimmed as it usually is, though no one could possibly call it scruffy.
Those small details are what make something crack inside me, and it takes everything I have to stop myself from surging forward into his arms. For years, Jenkins was my only constant—the only familiar person in my life, who picked me up from boarding school every time I was expelled and dropped me off at my new one, offering me a small sense of stability in between.
He was the only person who ever seemed to care about me, but after I chose to go to Oxford and work with MI5 against his wishes, something in the bond between us broke.
Forever, maybe, but while I desperately hope not, now is not the time to test that.
“Jenkins?” My voice is shaky, and I take a tentative step forward. “Is he—is my dad…?”
He glances at the PPOs gathered in the antechamber and gestures for me to follow him inside. When I take a step forward, however, Kit doesn’t, and considering I’m still holding on to him for dear life, that leaves me stuck.
“Lord Clarence may join us,” says Jenkins, and I have no idea how to interpret that. Does he think I’ll need the comfort? Or does Jenkins consider Kit family, since he is technically my father’s nephew?
I don’t think about it too hard. Instead, as soon as Kit is moving, I pull him forward, joining Jenkins inside an emerald sitting room.
The only evidence of use is an untouched lunch tray sitting on a table near the window, and my pulse is pounding so loudly in my ears now that I can barely hear Jenkins as he speaks.
“What on earth happened to you?” he says, brushing his fingertips against my jaw.
I blink like he’s spoken a foreign language, and only then do I remember the swollen purple-and-blue bruise from the night before.
The pain is still there, throbbing in time to my heartbeat, but my adrenaline and fear have spent the past several hours drowning it out.
“It’s nothing,” I say, flinching away as he touches an especially sensitive spot. “I’ll explain later. My dad—what’s going on? Victor Stephens, he said…it didn’t sound good, and Ben’s wearing black, and—”
“Evie?”
The sound of my name is faint and slurred, but I would’ve heard it clear as a bell even if the room were full of people.
Immediately I snap my head around to a single door that stands half-open, and before Jenkins can explain, I’ve darted around a sofa and an ottoman, still dragging Kit along behind me as I step into the doorway.
On the other side is a bedroom, illuminated by weak daylight spilling through the gauzy white curtains.
A hospital bed has replaced what was undoubtedly an antique monstrosity, and my mother sits on an uncomfortable-looking settee among any number of beeping machines.
Her curly hair is a mess, and there’s a small mountain of easels and sketchbooks in a nearby corner, but she’s not the one who said my name.
Instead, my father, Alexander II, King of England and the Commonwealth, lies propped up in bed, his legs still wrapped in bandages and his arms sporting more tubes and monitors than I can count.
But his blue eyes are open, and he’s smiling directly at me.