The important thing is not what they think of me, but what I think of them.

—Queen Victoria (b. 1819, r. 1837–1901)

 

WE LOOK NOTHING ALIKE.

I know that’s a ridiculous thing to contemplate as Maisie and I stare at each other, me shocked into silence and her waiting for my reply. But we don’t. She has wavy strawberry-blond hair that makes her look like she’s just stepped out of a world-class salon, and her eyes aren’t icy, like they seem in some photos, but a vivid ocean blue. She’s taller than me, too, by a good four inches, which makes it easy for her to look down her button nose at me.

“Are you deaf?” she says in a honeyed voice that sounds almost exactly like her mother’s. “Or simply stupid?”

“Maisie,” says one of the boys behind her, and there’s no mistaking the gentle warning in his tone. He has dark hair that’s a touch too shaggy for royalty, and he meets my gaze, his expression somber. I look away.

“What? It’s a fair question,” says Maisie, and she refocuses on me. “You have one more chance before we call security. What are you doing in my—”

“Maisie?” The door I’m leaning against flies open, and I lose my balance, nearly stumbling directly into the Queen. Helene gasps, and I manage to avoid her by an inch, grabbing the doorway instead.

“I’m sorry,” I croak, desperately wishing the ground would open up and I could disappear. “I was looking for—for the kitchen.”

“The kitchens?” Maisie glances at her mother, seemingly bewildered. “Are you a maid?”

I consider lying and saying yes—anything to get out of here—but before I can come up with a coherent reply, Alexander appears behind his wife. “Evangeline?” he says, his face draining of color. “What are you doing here?”

“Evangeline?” The Queen instantly goes cold, and her eyes narrow into slits. “Alexander—”

“It’s Evan,” I say, my voice shaking, “and I’m leaving. I just wanted a sandwich, all right? And there aren’t exactly any signs in this place.”

“There’s no need for you to leave,” says Alexander, but he’s wrong. As I try to escape this sudden nightmare, however, Maisie blocks my way.

“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” she says. “Or am I supposed to guess?”

The silence that follows is profound. Helene looks to Alexander, and he looks to the floor as if he’s also waiting for it to swallow him whole. Neither of them says a word, and I can feel Maisie’s frustration building.

“Fine,” I say. I already know hell will freeze before I win Helene over, and I doubt it’ll be any better with Maisie. I have nothing to lose, except the chance to get out of here with any shred of dignity I have left intact. I turn to Maisie and stick out my hand. “I’m Evan Bright, the royal bastard. From what I hear, we’re half sisters.”

She recoils like I’ve offered her a rotting limb. “Is this true?” she demands, speaking past me to her parents. “This is your illegitimate issue, Father?”

“This isn’t how I’d hoped you would meet,” says Alexander stiffly. “If we could all sit down…”

But I have no desire to stick around and hear him apologize for allowing a stain onto their impeccable family tree. “Excuse me,” I mumble, forcing my way past Maisie and the two boys who stand behind her. The shorter one—a blond with glasses who looks unnervingly familiar—gapes at me, while the dark-haired boy with a solemn gaze simply watches. I don’t know who they are, and I don’t care. All I want is to get as far away from this circus as possible.

My range is limited, though, and so I race down the corridor until I reach my sitting room. Bolting inside, I slam the door hard enough to wake the corpse of Henry VIII, and as the reverberation gives way to silence, I slide to the floor and press my knees against my chest, burying my face in my trembling arms.

I don’t cry. Even though Helene’s words echo endlessly in my mind, and even though the disgust on Maisie’s face is etched onto the back of my eyelids, I swallow the lump in my throat, refusing to give them the satisfaction. I’m nothing to them, and there’s some small amount of comfort in that.

Twenty-five days, and I’ll be gone. And after I leave, I will never, ever come back.

I’m not sure how long I sit there, taking deep, slow breaths and trying to calm my racing heart. When a soft knock sounds on the door I’m leaning against, I freeze.

“Jenkins?” I say hoarsely. “Is that—”

“Miss?” says an unfamiliar female voice. “I have your dinner.”

My dinner? I scramble to my feet, tugging the door open right as the woman on the other side is turning the knob. She jumps in surprise and takes an automatic step back, nearly running into a footman carrying a tray covered in a silver dome.

“I think you have the wrong room,” I say. “I didn’t ask for anything.”

“The order came from the King,” she says as the footman enters and sets the tray down on the dining table. “There is a variety of sandwiches for you to enjoy, as His Majesty was unsure of your preferences.”

I open and shut my mouth, not knowing what to make of that—of Alexander going out of his way for me, even if it probably only took a phone call. “Thank you,” I finally manage.

“You’re very welcome,” says the woman kindly, and once she and the footman excuse themselves, I inspect the meal. Half a dozen sandwiches are artfully arranged on a plate, complete with a side of neatly stacked french fries.

I blink. French fries. In Windsor Castle. Something about that breaks my brain, and I sit down at the table in a daze. I’m strangely numb now, but it’s better than feeling like my entire world is collapsing around me.

Even though my appetite is gone, I force myself to eat, managing most of the fries and three-quarters of a sandwich before I lose the will to finish. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with the tray, so I slide it into the hallway outside my door before returning to my bedroom, where I should’ve stayed in the first place, safely ensconced with my laptop.

Lesson learned. Desperate for familiarity and a reminder that not everyone hates my guts, I open VidChat and click my mother’s icon. The ringing echoes through the high-ceilinged chamber, and I hastily turn down the volume as my face appears on-screen. In the glow of the laptop, my skin is so pale it’s practically translucent, which only makes the purple smudges beneath my brown eyes more pronounced than usual. This is definitely not a good look.

“Hello?”

Her voice arrives before her image, and my stomach flip-flops. “Mom?” I say, instantly perking up. “Can you—”

“Alex?” The hope in her voice is unmistakable. “Alex, I can’t hear you.”

My heart sinks. “No—it’s me, Mom. It’s Evan.”

“Evan?” Finally the video appears, and I see her for the first time since our call in January. My mom leans toward her computer, her glasses askew and her curly auburn hair wild and frizzy. She’s wearing a smock stained with a rainbow palette of paints, and on the easel behind her, I spot an impressionistic blend of bright spring colors in what must be her current piece.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, forcing myself to keep my tone light. She’s every bit as beautiful as she’s always been, but her cheekbones are sharp, and she’s lost weight. Too much weight, I think.

“Evie? It’s you?”

“It’s me,” I say, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. She hasn’t called me Evie in years. “I miss you. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to call. Did you get my letters?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she disappears for a moment, and I worry she’s wandered off. It wouldn’t be the first time. But a few seconds later, she reappears, holding a large canvas covered in blues and greens and accented with strokes of pinks and violets. It’s always hard to tell exactly what she’s painting, but I recognize this instantly. My grandmother’s garden.

“I wanted to send this, but I don’t have your address,” she says anxiously. “Did I miss your birthday?”

“Not yet,” I say. “It’s only early June.”

“June,” she murmurs, as if reminding herself. “Right. I still have time.”

“You still have time,” I assure her, and as my vision blurs, I hastily wipe my eyes. “How are you feeling? Jenkins said you’re on new meds. Are they working?”

She waves one hand dismissively, her body mostly off-screen now. “The new nurse hates me. Caught her trying to steal my brushes. Has he called? He said he would call.”

He is Alexander, and whenever my mom and I speak, our conversation inevitably ends up here. She’s always waiting for him to call, and he never does. It’s a delusion, a symptom of the schizophrenia diagnosis she received when I was four years old, and this particular manifestation of her illness is undoubtedly fueled by the short-lived relationship she had with him before I was born. But even though I know this, it’s never easy to hear her talk about him as if he’s an integral part of our family. Especially when he couldn’t care less about us.

“Actually, I, uh…have some news,” I say slowly, not sure how to tell her without feeding her delusion. “I’m in London.”

“London?” Suddenly I have her full attention, and she leans toward the screen again. “Are you with him?”

“Um—sort of,” I say. “I’m staying at Windsor Castle until my birthday.”

“He didn’t tell me,” she says, frowning. “He should have told me.”

“Alexander didn’t know, Mom. I didn’t even know until—”

The video screen goes blank, and the call disconnects. Muttering a curse, I check the Wi-Fi connection and try again. I don’t want to end the conversation like this, not when she’s so confused. But the laptop rings—and rings, and rings, until my chest is heavy with an ache I can’t name, and I have no choice but to give up. I’ll call her again in the morning, I promise myself. Maybe by then Jenkins will have explained everything, and I won’t feel so helpless and adrift anymore.