“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 anelectronic 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’sa 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.
Chapter Ten
She’s here.
You said you wanted to know when she arrived.
What, no reply?
Is there anything in particular you’d like for me to weasel out of her?
John?
—Text messages sent from a prepaid mobile, 2 February 2024, 11:27a.m.
