Evan
Are you okay? Tibby told me about the article. I’m so sorry.
And I’m sorry for texting, too. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to talk to me or not, and Maisie said she already spoke to you, but…I’m always here for you. And we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, I promise. I just wanted to make sure you know you’re not alone.
I love you. I’ll see you tonight.
—Text messages from Evangeline Bright to Christopher Abbott-Montgomery, Earl of Clarence, sent February12, 2024, 7:48a.m.
I text Kit three timesbefore I hop in the shower, and by the time I step out of the hot water ten minutes later, I’m already reaching for my phone to see if he’s replied. He hasn’t—he hasn’t even read the messages—and throwing all caution to the wind, I call him.
It immediately goes to voice mail.
I wait five agonizingly long minutes before trying again. Once more, the phone doesn’t even ring, and all I get is a robotic voice instructing me to leave a message.
By the time my teeth are brushed, my hair is dry, and I’m dressed in cozy travel clothes that cost more than my entire childhood wardrobe, I’ve called him twelve times more, each with the same result.
“Did Kit change his number?” I say as I step into my bedroom, where Tibby is playing tug with the puppy and a cashmere sock.
“Is he not answering?” says Tibby without glancing up.
“And he’s not reading my texts.”
“His mobile’s probably off,” she says. “Now that the rest of the world is waking up and news of Ben’s article is spreading.”
She says this in a tone that makes it clear she overheard everything in the dining room, including the revelation about Ben and theRegal Record,and I grimace. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have, but—”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” says Tibby with a scowl. “There was no pressing need for me to know, as annoyed as I am with you for it. Youcantrust me, though, for the record. Should anything like this come up in the future.”
“I trust you more than I trust almost anyone else,” I point out. “It was just…”
I trail off, not knowing how to put it into words, but Tibby nods anyway. “Yes, it was. Now, if you don’t mind waiting until the plane to put your makeup on, His Majesty has requested to see you before we leave.”
“He has?” I say, surprised. He was so out of it yesterday that I wasn’t even sure he remembered the interview was happening, let alone knew what day it was.
We waste no time making our way to Alexander’s private wing, and the protection officers let me and the puppy in without a word while Tibby waits in the antechamber. I knock on the bedroom door, not wanting to burst in and startle Alexander—or worse, accidentally catch a glimpse of a sponge bath or a catheter change—and a moment later, Jenkins opens the door.
“Oh, lovely,” he says. “His Majesty was afraid you wouldn’t make it before your flight.”
“Pretty sure the pilot isn’t going to leave without us,” I say, and while normally I’d offer Jenkins a hug, his posture is as stiff and formal as it has been since I arrived at Balmoral. I hate the distance between us, but nothing except time and a substantial amount of groveling on my part is going to bridge it, so for now I pretend nothing is wrong and turn to face my parents.
Except it’s only Alexander today, sitting up in bed and slowly feeding himself from a breakfast tray. A nurse watches over him, ready to help if need be, but he’s doing a damn good job on his own, all things considered.
“Where’s Mom?” I say as I perch on the couch she usually occupies. Poppy curls up at my feet, happy to play with a discarded rag my mom uses for watercolors.
“I asked to speak to you alone,” says Alexander, his voice stronger than it was the day before, and he sets down his fork.
“Why?” I say, suspicious. There aren’t many things my parents keep from one another.
Alexander hesitates, then reaches for something on the corner of the tray. It’s a small black box, unmistakable in purpose, and as soon as I see it, I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.
No.No.
“You said—on Christmas, you said you’d never force my mom into a role she didn’t want,” I manage, “and we both know she doesn’t want to be queen.”
“This is what we both want, Evie,” says my father gently, and he sounds so much like himself again that the tears springing to my eyes aren’t only out of frustration and fear. “She and I’ve been talking about it for a very long time, what we would do if we had the chance, and titles, roles…none of that matters. But being her husband…having her as my wife…that would mean more to me than…” He shakes his head slowly, seemingly at a loss for words.
“But—she would hate royal life,” I say, my stomach in knots. “And forcing her to live it—”
