“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 Oxfordto 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.
