Tibby grumbles, but seems to mellow out once Kit and I are posing for the cameras, turning this way and that as the photographers shout our names. By now I should be used to it, but it never stops feeling like they’re trying to steal a piece of our souls as they take picture after picture, as if there can never be enough. I hate it, but I don’t stop smiling, even when two freakishly familiar people join us.
“Oh my gosh, it’s really you!” cries an American girl three inches taller than me, her dark hair tumbling down her back in perfect waves. She catches me in a hug, and it takes me a beat to realize this is Riley Monroe, the actress who plays me in thefilm.
“And it’s you!” I say, trying to match her excitement as I hug her back, ignoring the flashing cameras. Astrid’s firm insisted on keeping Kit and I separate from the actors playing us—Riley and an eerily handsome man named Greyson Thatcher—on the promo circuit, and I have no doubt that both Riley and Greyson have been carefully coached to time our first meeting in front of these cameras.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” says Greyson in a posh accent very much like Kit’s, and he leans in to kiss my cheeks. He doesn’t look enough like Kit for me to stare, but Riley is a taller, perfected version of me, as if someone photoshopped an exceptionally good picture of me within an inch of its life, and I can see the surprise on the real Kit’s face as he, too, greets Riley.
“Thinking of trading up?” I tease in his ear once the four of us start posing together for even more pictures. Kit grins down at me.
“No such thing when it comes to you,” he murmurs, giving me a quick kiss on the lips, causing another wave of screams from the fans and a blinding explosion of light from the photographers.
At last, after the four of us spend several minutes posing in every possible combination, a red-cheeked Tibby ushers us along toward the interviews.
“Time blindness is not an attractive trait,” she mutters so only Kit and I can hear her.
“Pretty sure that’s why I have you,” I say, scanning the clusters of people still hanging around. While Helene and Nicholas speak with a reporter I recognize from ITV, my mother is nowhere in sight.
Hoping that she went inside the theater, I hug Kit’s arm while Riley and Greyson break off to do their own interviews, and Tibby guides us toward a pretty blond woman and a man in a cerulean suit that matches his short mohawk.
“Evangeline! Lord Clarence!” the woman squeals, and I force a warm smile. “What a wild event! First off, let us congratulate you on the film—”
“And, of course, the real-life events that led to it,” says the man, his tone much more even. “Now that you’ve had time to settle back into royal life, how are you feeling?”
“Stunned,” I say, looking around, as if I can’t quite believe we’re here. Which I can’t, but I’m playing it up for the camera, exactly as Astrid instructed. “This is incredible. Neither of us ever expected anything like this—how could we?”
“It’s rather surreal,” agrees Kit, his arm slipping around my waist. “All we wanted was to protect the family and the peopleof the United Kingdom to the best of our limited abilities, and seeing what it’s turned into…”
He shakes his head, but this is a sentiment we’ve repeated again and again throughout the year, never once making the mistake of seeming like we think we deserve it. Because we don’t. It’s all manufactured anyway, for the greater good of the monarchy, a fact that’s never too far from the forefront of my mind.
They have a few more bland questions—have we seen the film already, what do we expect, how involved were we in the making of it, and what do we think of the crowds here tonight—and I sense Tibby stepping forward to end the interview when the blond blurts out one more question.
“We hear congratulations are in order, Evangeline—an engagement between your mother and His Majesty! You must be so excited! Has a date for the wedding been set?”
I freeze, my eyes on Kit. How do they know? It couldn’t have been a press release—Doyle would never do anything to steal headlines from the premiere tonight. Did my mother say anything? No—she wouldn’t announce it without Alexander’s approval. And without warning me first.
“I…” I search frantically for something to say. Do I deny it? But what happens when theydoannounce the engagement? Do I confirm? How do these two random American reporters evenknow?
“His Majesty is focused on his recovery,” says Kit smoothly, and his hand splays comfortingly on the small of my back. “We are very proud of the strides he has made, and we know he is eager to resume his full duties as soon as he is able.”
This is such a sidestep that even I can’t blame the reportersfor their crestfallen faces. But it’s the woman who rallies quicker, and as Kit starts to lead me away, she shoves a microphone within millimeters of my mouth.
“What about you two? When should we expect a big announcement of your own?” she says, clearly desperate to get something usable out of us. But while the most I can manage is a tight smile, Kit chuckles.
“When we have something to announce, we’ll be sure to do so,” he promises, and before either of them can press, he hurries me away, Tibby following at a quick pace.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she says in a clipped voice. “No more interviews. How on earth did they find out about—”
“They didn’t know,” says Kit through a wide smile, waving to another cluster of fans in the stands. “They were fishing.”
“But how—”
“My mom’s probably wearing her ring,” I realize, holding my hand up to cover my mouth so no one can read my lips. “She almost never takes it off.”
Tibby groans and proceeds to curse whichever stylist let my mother leave Windsor wearing it, while I silently curse whoever let my mother leave Windsor at all. The only silver lining to the American reporters’ curveball is that Tibby lets Riley and Greyson deal with the rest of the interviewers, while she leads us quickly through the doors of the theater with plenty of time to spare.
As soon as we duck inside the cool, dark building, a coil in the pit of my stomach unclenches, and the urge to take off my heels is almost overwhelming. Before I can weigh the pros and cons—mostly of what Tibby would do to me if I tried—I spot afamiliar head of auburn hair in the glitzy lobby, which is slowly emptying as everyone filters into the theater for the premiere.
“Mom!”
