Rosie is dead.
Rosie isdead.
And Ben’s the one who killed her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Henrietta, are you surprised that His Majesty is rushing into a second marriage so soon after finalizing his divorce with Her Majesty Queen Helene?”
“Well, it has only been weeks, but after all we’ve learned about their marriage in the past sixteen months, it’s fair to say that they’ve been married in name only for years—possibly for the majority of their union. Her Majesty has already publicly moved on with the Duke of York, which is as scandalous a match as there is, in my opinion, and with all His Majesty has been through since the bombing, surely we as a country can allow him this happiness in marrying the woman he has apparently loved since he was a teenager.”
“So you see this as a happy ending to a decades-long love story?”
“I do. Not to speak ill of our queen or of the marriage that produced our beloved Princess Mary, but while they may be royalty, we must remember that Their Majesties are also human. And it has been clear from the moment we found out about Evangeline that His Majesty has been leading a life outside the public eye, one he cherishes a great deal. We simply did not know how much until now.”
“Do we have any details of the wedding yet?”
“Buckingham Palace has released a statement saying that a small civil ceremony will take place in the ‘near future,’ and there is no word yet as to which titles, if any, Ms.Bright will take.”
“Considering what the country thought of Laura Bright little more than a year ago, what should we expect the public reaction to be?”
“It’s hard to say. The stigma against mental illness will never go away completely, especially coupled with the heinous act Ms.Bright committed when she wasn’t in her right mind—”
“Trying to drown four-year-old Evangeline in a bathtub.”
“Yes, if you’d like to be crass about it. But as we know, she received years of in-patient treatment and is still under the care of doctors to this day, and she was not charged with a crime. Paranoid schizophrenia is a complex mental illness with many facets—”
“And is it not controversial, having a queen with such a…complicated history?”
“Of course it is, and to imply otherwise is naive at best. But I would certainly not wish to be judged by the entire world for the single worst moment of my life, and yet Laura Bright is risking exactly that by marrying the man she has loved for decades, despite knowing it will put her in an unfriendly spotlight for the rest of recorded history. That alone tells me all I need to know about how much they love each other, and I for one hope they are able to finally have their happy ending. Or happy beginning, as it is.”
“But what about the legal implications of such a marriage?”
“I don’t see the problem. Henry VIII saw to it nearly five hundred years ago that our kings and queens could divorce, if they so choose, and Ms.Bright has never married. Or, as far as we know, had a relationship with anyone other than His Majesty.”
“Yes, but this is more a question of succession—a game of heirs and thrones, if you will. With Princess Mary and Evangeline born on the same day, would a union between His Majesty and Laura Bright not throw the current line of succession into question?”
“Ah, I see. After His Majesty and Ms.Bright marry, yes, Evangeline would legally be legitimized. But the line of succession excludes someone in Evangeline’s position from being placed in line without an act of Parliament, something that, as much as we all love Evangeline, I highly doubt would be passed anytime soon, barring another royal crisis.”
“I see. So regardless of which girl was born first, the line of succession will not change?”
“I…well, now that you’ve brought it up, I must admit this isn’t something I’d given much thought. But should Evangeline have any legitimate children, those childrenwouldbe automatically placed in the line of succession, as would any legitimate child born of royal blood.”
“And if Evangeline is older than Princess Mary?”
“Well. That would certainly make things interesting, wouldn’t it?”
—ITV News’s interview with Henrietta Smythe, 10 September 2024
By the time our RangeRover pulls up the gravel drive and stops at the entrance to Windsor Castle, it’s nearly four in the morning, and my parents are waiting for us beneath the awning, their faces knit with unspeakable worry.
“Evie,” says my mother, sweeping me into her arms the moment I plant my feet on the drive. “Are you all right?”
I shake my head and cling to her, unstable as I am after hours of questioning and interviews from both Scotland Yard and MI5. Though Kit, Tibby, and I were only inside Rosie’s townhouse for eight minutes, I’ve gone over every single detail so many times that those eight minutes are seared into my memory now, andeverything else—even the cool predawn breeze—feels unreal. Like I’ll be stuck in the last moments of Rosie’s life for the rest of mine, no matter where I am.
“It’s been a long night,” says Kit tiredly as he climbs out after me, refusing to leave my side. There were nearly two horrible hours when we were separated at the start of questioning, when I did nothing but request a lawyer and stare at the wall as tears streamed down my face, and I silently prayed to whatever deity I could think of that somehow, someway, Rosie would survive. But something Kit or Tibby said, either to the police or the familiar MI5 agents who soon joined the investigation, must have cleared us of suspicion, because we were reunited in time for Singh to arrive and inform us that Rosie was really, truly gone.
“The police treated you fairly?” says the low, rumbling voice of my father, and Kit nods.
