Paparazzi shouting at four-year-old me. Hunting us down at my grandma’s condo. Surrounding my mother’s house, even though it was undoubtedly empty for the years she was going through inpatient treatment. Harassing her doctors, the nurses,the staff—anything to find out a morsel of information. Blackmailing them. Paying them off for clues. Not allowing my mom the opportunity to heal in peace and privacy. Not giving Alexander the chance to visit her every weekend, like he did the wholetime.
It would have changed everything. I would’ve been a completely different person—maybe still hidden away at boarding schools to protect my privacy, but that would’ve only lasted for so long. And it wouldn’t have just been my bad behavior that forced me to switch schools so often. I would’ve been hunted, even though I was still a kid. I would’ve been known as the King’s bastard daughter my entire life, and by now, at the age of nineteen, I would’ve never given him a chance to explain himself. Ever.
“Things would’ve been worse,” I finally admit. “A lot worse.”
Kit nods. “I think so, too.”
“But…” I rub my face, pressing my palms into my eyes. “All he had to do was choose me and my mom instead of Maisie and Helene. Nicholas could’ve married Helene, and Maisie could’ve been born legitimate, and no one could’ve stopped them. And everything would’ve been the same.”
Kit studies me for a long moment. “Is that what you really think?”
“Yes,” I say, determined now, but after another beat, I huff. “Okay, it would’ve been a rough few months, maybe a year—”
“Even the most loyal of royalists would’ve lost their bloody minds at the thought of Alexander abdicating, divorcing his pregnant wife, and his brother stepping in to take his place,” saysKit. “They would’ve had to go public with the affair in order to legitimize Maisie, and that alone would’ve done more damage to the monarchy than—well, anything any monarch has ever done, I suppose. Kings have been beheaded for less.”
“It’s not the seventeenth century anymore.”
“No, it isn’t,” he agrees. “And we know now what some people are willing to do in order to see the monarchy abolished. Nicholas, Helene, and Maisie—that mess would’ve been more than enough for people like Dylan and John Phillip Michaels to get the following they needed to see their so-called revolution through.”
I’m quiet for a long moment, my fingers dancing silently over the smooth keys of my laptop. “So you’re saying that Alexander sacrificed his relationship with me in order to save the monarchy,” I say finally. “Because that isn’t helping.”
Kit shrugs. “I’m saying we won’t know until you’re ready to talk to them. But there’s a pretty good chance there was much more at stake than either of us realizes.”
I grit my teeth and ease my laptop closed. He’s not wrong, and while I’m not mad at him for it, I’m mad at the situation for being nuanced. I want to be angry. Iamangry, and no matter how many facets there are, I have every right to be. But I also love Alexander more than I ever thought I could, and I love my mother with blind faith. If she thought it was a good idea, or at least the only workable option, then there’s a possibility—a small possibility, but one that still exists—that she was right.
“I’ll consider talking to them,” I finally mumble, sinking down onto the pillows and giving a sleeping Poppy a scratchbehind her ear. It’s late morning now, but I haven’t even showered yet, let alone changed out of my pajamas. There’s no point, not when I have no intention of leaving the bedroom today.
Kit kisses my cheek. “Thank you,” he says. “Only when you’re ready, though, all right? There’s no pressure—”
A muted knock sounds from the other room, and he and I both pause. “I thought Tibby was meeting with Louis until lunch,” I say.
“And your father has his doctor appointment right around now, too,” he says, glancing at his watch. “Maybe it’s tea.”
Either way, I’m not interested, and as he rolls out of bed and heads into the other room to answer the door, I cocoon myself and Poppy in the quilt again, closing my eyes and trying to picture what my life would’ve been like if Alexander had been there for all of it. I think I would’ve been happy. I would’ve known I was loved. But what would the rest of it have looked like? Would we have had any privacy at all? Or would the paparazzi have followed Alexander to Virginia, always fascinated with the King who gave up his crown for love?
“…want to speak with her,” says a haughty, all-too-familiar voice from the sitting room, and I sit up again, the blanket falling to my shoulders.
“She’s not up for visitors right now, Mais,” says Kit, sounding exasperated. “It’s not my decision—”
“IfI’mready to talk, then she certainly ought to be,” says Maisie, and I can practically see her tossing her strawberry-blond hair over her shoulder. No wonder she’s so damn beautiful, with both Helene’s and Nicholas’s genes working together. Not thatAlexander is a troll, but between the brothers, Nicholas definitely won the genetic lottery.
I roll out of bed without thinking and, with the quilt still wrapped around my shoulders, I plod to the door and open it, revealing my sister and Kit standing nose-to-nose in the sitting room. She’s dressed in a pale blue jumper and gray trousers, and her makeup is impeccable despite the obvious emotional blow she’s been dealt.
“It’s okay,” I say to Kit. “We can talk, Maisie. If you really want to.”
“Of course I want to,” she says, giving Kit a victorious look. “I brought tea, too. A special brew from India. It’s supposed to help with nerves.”
I raise an eyebrow as a footman enters with a tray and a teapot, and he sets both down on the dining table. As soon as he leaves, Maisie gives Kit another pointed look, and he clears his throat.
“I suppose I ought to…make sure the rest of the castle is still standing,” he says, and he gives me a quick kiss before ducking into the main corridor. Maisie closes and locks the door behind him, and I sink into a chair at the dining table.
“Special tea?” I say, eyeing the pot. “Please don’t tell me you’ve picked up a drug habit in the past few days. It would explain why you’re so—calmabout all this, but still—”
“And give the press the opportunity to make a terrible ‘Her Royal Highness’ pun? Never,” she says with a scoff, as if I’ve mortally offended her. She takes a seat near me and pours the tea for both of us, and it smells like cinnamon, cloves, and something nutty. “We need to talk.”
“Obviously,” I say, wrapping my hand around my cup and blowing on the hot liquid. “Has Alexander tried to speak toyou?”
“Yes,” she says. “And he told me that you…know now. About everything.”
