GIA: You did what?
MAISIE: It’s surely not that unreasonable, all things considered.
GIA: Maisie, darling, I know you’re used to getting your way, but asking her to take the blame for you is cruel.
MAISIE: But the lawyer said—
GIA: The lawyer is paid to protect you and your parents, and that means throwing everyone else under the bus if need be, Evangeline included.
MAISIE: Yes, well, I will be queen someday.
GIA: Oh? I hadn’t heard.
[pause]
MAISIE: You’re angry with me, aren’t you?
GIA: Yes, I am. She’s your sister. Half sister, whatever you want to call her, she’s your blood. And she’s in a foreign country surrounded by strangers, most of whom deeply dislike her, and she’s already had to endure a horrifically traumatic experience that’s now on display for anyone with an internet connection. And you think it’s all right to ask her to take the blame for a death she didn’t cause?
MAISIE: Well, she’s already up to her neck in it. I don’t see what one more scandal—
GIA: Maisie. Listen to yourself. Don’t you have an ounce of compassion for her?
MAISIE: Do you think she has an ounce of compassion for me?
GIA: Considering the truth of what happened that night isn’t on the cover of every tabloid in the country, yes, I think she does. She could take the heat off herself simply by pointing out the video was edited, but she hasn’t. That speaks volumes.
MAISIE: She still could, you know. Benny said she’s gone mad after all that rubbish about her mother in the papers today, so really, it’s only a matter of time before she decides to burn us all to the ground.
GIA: After all you and your mother and the bloody Cunninghams have put her through, I certainly wouldn’t blame her. I might even help her light the match.
MAISIE: Gia!
GIA: I mean it. If this is the person you’re growing into…
[pause]
MAISIE: I’m sorry. You know how difficult this has all been for me.
GIA: If it’s been difficult for you, then just imagine how difficult it’s been for her.
MAISIE: Do I really have to?
GIA: Only if you want to be a decent person. But if this isn’t who you are anymore, do me a favor and tell me now, before you break my bloody heart.
—Phone call between Her Royal Highness the Princess Mary and Lady Georgiana Greyville, 9:41 a.m., 26 June 2023
TIBBY REFUSES TO LEAVE ME.
While I curl up on the sofa in my sitting room, buried yet again under a quilt, she plants herself on the love seat across from me and talks about a million things I don’t care about. Gossip about a viscount gambling away his family fortune in Monte Carlo. Which of her relatives have scored prime tickets to Wimbledon. A Welsh movie star who’s reportedly pregnant with her boyfriend’s baby despite announcing her divorce from her husband only a week ago.
I appreciate Tibby’s efforts and her company, but it’s static to my ears. All I can think about is that article, and all I can hear are the words Alexander said to me.
My mom was the one who sent me away. She’s kept me at arm’s length on purpose. This whole time I’ve blamed Alexander for boarding school, for all those years of having no one, but she was the one who decided she didn’t want me anymore. She was the one who made me fend for myself, leaving me without a family and without a home.
I squeeze my eyes shut. It doesn’t matter. She’s sick—she doesn’t know how much she’s hurting me. But even as I tell myself that, I know it’s also a lie. She may have bad days, but her illness is mostly under control. This was her choice. This was what she wanted.
Shortly before lunchtime, there’s a knock on my door. While Tibby rises to see who it is, I burrow even deeper into my quilt. There’s no one in the world I want to talk to right now, and definitely no one who lives in Windsor Castle.
“Your Royal Highness,” says Tibby tartly, and I feel another surge of affection toward her. “I’m afraid Evangeline isn’t feeling well.”
“Obviously.” My half sister’s voice is cutting, and I wince inwardly. “No one would in her position, but I need to speak to her anyway.”
From my spot on the sofa, I can’t tell if Maisie pushes her way into the room, but I’d like to think Tibby at least pretends to put up a fight. Maisie’s footsteps are muffled by the carpet, but I hear her circle around and take a seat in the armchair near my head.
“Will you at least look at me?” she says stiffly, and I mutter a few curses as I pull the blanket from my face.
“What do you want? To rub my nose in it? The media is doing a great job of that already, thanks.”
If she’s offended by my distinct lack of respect, she doesn’t let it show. “I…wanted to see how you’re doing,” she says slowly, as if every word is a battle.
“Everything’s fantastic,” I mutter. “What’s not to love?”
Maisie laces her fingers together, and I think I see a flicker of unease in the way she frowns. “I had no idea your mother was…ill. You have my sympathy.”
“I don’t want your sympathy, or your pity, or anything else you have to offer,” I snap, sitting up and wrestling with the quilt until my arms are free. “Being diagnosed with schizophrenia isn’t a death sentence. It’s treatable and manageable, and my mom hasn’t been putting in the work for years just so you can offer your sympathy.”
Maisie flinches, and her knuckles turn white. “Yes, well. I’m afraid I don’t know much about it.”
“Then educate yourself,” I say shortly. “That’s not my job.”
Silence settles between us. She fidgets, clearly uncomfortable, and a nasty part of me hopes this is enough to make her leave. Maisie stays where she is, though, and at last she draws in a deep breath and squares her shoulders.
“I also want to apologize for what happened yesterday,” she says. “When I told Gia, she was utterly furious, and of course she was right to be. You’ve been through enough of an ordeal without anyone asking you to do…such a thing.”
Her gaze darts over to Tibby, who watches us from a spot beside the window, her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed. I sigh. The last thing I want is to be alone in a room with Her Royal Highness, but I’m too exhausted and emotionally drained to speak in riddles and allusions.
“Tibby, could we have a minute?” I say, slipping my hands back into the folds of the quilt.
“Are you certain?” she says, and I nod.
“Don’t go far, though. Please.”
She sniffs at my request, but heads into the corridor without arguing and closes the door behind her. The sitting room feels oddly empty now, and I turn back to Maisie, determined not to let my nerves show.
“Are you trying to apologize for asking me to confess to Jasper’s murder?” I say bluntly.
“Was that not clear?” she says, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Truly, it was a despicable thing to ask of anyone. But after your assault and the release of that video, and of course the revelation of what your mother did to you—”
“We’re not talking about that,” I cut in, and she must hear how deadly serious I am, because she nods once and presses her lips together.
“My point is, you’ve been through enough, and I’m deeply sorry for asking you to take on a burden that should be mine. It wasn’t fair to you, and it certainly wasn’t sisterly of me.”
Sisterly? I gape at her for the better part of ten seconds. “We’re not sisters. You’ve made that crystal clear.”
“Well—no, we’re not,” she agrees. “We’re half sisters, though. And in this family, we protect one another, no matter how much we may otherwise disagree. It’s the only way to keep the hounds at bay, isn’t it? To close ranks and watch out for each other.”
None of them seemed terribly interested in closing ranks around me twenty-four hours ago. “What about the full recording? Aren’t you worried that’ll leak, too?”
Maisie blushes and averts her eyes. “I can’t pretend it isn’t at the forefront of my mind. I keep thinking about how it all unfolded—how angry I was, how I confronted Jasper, what that must have looked like on camera. I know what my motives were, but of course I’m concerned about how a viewer might interpret my actions. And the ripple effect that may have on my reign. A queen hasn’t ruled in over a century, after all, and far too many will see it as proof that I am…unstable.”
I’m quiet as I consider this. I don’t have the insight to reassure her, though, despite the annoying urge to do so. “Have you talked to anyone else about what happened at the party?”
She sighs. “Gia, naturally. And I also spoke to Benny and Kit this morning.” Maisie pauses, her painted pink lips tugging down in a frown. “They both knew something was wrong, of course—I spent all of yesterday in tears. But I told them everything at breakfast. I had to, didn’t I? They were both at the party, and I’ll need their support if the full recording ever comes out. Thankfully we’re all in agreement that it was entirely Jasper’s fault.”
“It was,” I echo hollowly, and part of me wonders what Kit thought of the full story. “Thank you again for confronting him. For defending me.”
She gazes past me for a moment, her blue eyes unfocused. “We may not be on the best of terms, but as I said, our family protects our own. And after what he did to you…he deserved to fall off that balcony. I don’t regret what happened to him in the least.”
Her fierce protectiveness isn’t the most surprising thing about today, but it’s close, and the ice inside me begins to thaw. Not much, admittedly, but enough that I want to believe this olive branch is real.
“He was my first kiss,” I admit, picking at a ragged nail I must have chewed off. “My first—anything. But all people see when they look at that video is some slut who changed her mind.”
Maisie scowls. “Even if you were a—a that who changed your mind, Jasper should have left you alone the moment you said no. Your level of experience doesn’t void your right to withdraw consent.”
“I know,” I say. “But he didn’t listen.”
“And that isn’t your fault.”
I don’t know what to say to that, and we sit in silence for a full minute. I want to ask why she’s being so nice to me, especially after the way we left things yesterday morning. But even though I don’t trust this newfound peace between us, I don’t want to be the one to break it, either. Too many parts of my life have already crumbled to the ground today, and even if this is a trick, it would be all too easy to let myself believe it.
At last Maisie stands. “Daddy and I have a meeting with his advisers in a few minutes. You’ll be all right, yes?”
I nod. “I don’t think Tibby’s going anywhere.”
Maisie hesitates. “Perhaps you and I could have dinner tonight. If you’re feeling up to it, that is.”
I stare at her. “Seriously?”
She looks me up and down with a critical gaze. “If you brush your hair and put on some clean clothes,” she amends. “Pajamas are strictly prohibited.”
With that, she strides toward the door, and I watch her go, letting her have the last word. Outside the walls of Windsor Castle, the media storm is raging, but it’s strangely comforting to know that Hurricane Maisie may not be so lethal after all.
MUCH TO TIBBY’S relief, I order a fruit salad and some toast for lunch. She doesn’t ask any questions about my conversation with Maisie, but more than once I catch her watching me out of the corner of her eye. I’ve left my laptop in my bedroom, positive I’m not strong enough to resist the temptation to see what the world is saying about my mother, and I’m halfway through a chapter of a novel I’ve been meaning to read when there’s another knock on the door.
“Finally. I’m starving,” says Tibby. She’s still in her sweatshirt and leggings, and I make a mental note to tell her to go home after lunch. She doesn’t need to babysit me, and besides, I’m exhausted. As soon as I have something to eat, I fully intend on napping until it’s time for dinner.
When she opens the door, however, it isn’t a footman holding a tray—it’s Jenkins. He looks about as weary and wrung out as I feel, but when our eyes meet, he musters up a smile. I pretend I don’t see the hint of pity behind it.
“Evan, darling,” he murmurs, and I untangle myself from the quilt and hurry toward him. By the time we reach each other, his arms are outstretched, and I bury my face in his suit jacket.
Jenkins holds me as the seconds tick by, neither of us saying a word. I’m not crying anymore, but I need this—I need his comfort and his silent reassurance, and he seems to sense it. And when I pull away, to Jenkins’s credit, he doesn’t even smooth out the wrinkles I’ve made in his lapel.
“How are you feeling?” he says, tucking a wayward lock of hair behind my ear.
“I don’t know. Numb, I guess,” I mumble. “Is my mom okay? Has anyone checked on her? I tried calling earlier, but she wasn’t picking up.”
“She’s perfectly fine,” says Jenkins. “Far more worried about you, I suspect. His Majesty has hired extra security for her as a precaution, but no one will find her, Evan. She’s as hidden as hidden can be.”
I wish I found this reassuring, but Alexander made similar promises the night this whole farce began. “This is bad, isn’t it?” I say as guilt surges through me. Why did I trust Kit? Why did I tell him about my mom?
“It’s not ideal,” concedes Jenkins. “Are you too tired to pack a bag?”
“A bag?” I say, confused. “I’m pretty sure I’m not allowed to leave town.”
“Scotland Yard has reviewed the footage posted online, and they’ve come to the same conclusion you so cleverly deduced,” says Jenkins. He smiles again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “We expect the investigation against you to be officially dropped this afternoon. In the meantime, His Majesty and I have spoken, and we’re in agreement. Evan…” He hesitates. “It’s time for you to go home.”