Page 31

“You’re all right, Evan,” he murmurs in a voice meant only for me. This kind of behavior would get any other member of the royal staff dismissed on the spot, but Jenkins has been the one constant in my life since my grandmother’s death, and I refuse to let something as ridiculous as protocol steal that from us.

“You’re here,” I say, a little dizzy as I finally step back. “What about Louis? You shouldn’t have to give up your Christmas.”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he says. “And I assure you, our nieces and nephews won’t miss me, not when Louis’s baking up a storm. Your Majesty,” he adds, bowing his head as footsteps crunch against the gravel beside us.

“Jenkins,” says Alexander. “Thank you for coming—and please, there’s no need for formalities today. Has Dr. Gupta arrived?”

“He and his team have already set up their equipment in Evangeline’s apartment, sir,” says Jenkins, as proper as he always is, and he touches my good shoulder. “Let’s get you inside, darling.”

Somehow, miraculously, I manage the walk from the side entrance to my apartment, which feels like it’s tripled in the two days we’ve been at Sandringham. The royal physician—Dr. Gupta—is waiting for me in my sitting room, and it’s only after he checks my vitals and the small incision just below my shoulder that I’m finally allowed to pass out in my own bed.

Maybe it’s the painkillers, or maybe the trauma of all that’s happened is finally sinking in, but instead of sleeping soundly, Ifloat from dream to dream, each more surreal than the last. Kitand I are back in the woods at Sandringham, but they’re darker and full of blood-red daisies. I know what’s coming—Ican feel the gunman’s eyes on me like heat from the sun—but when I turn, Venetia is there instead, asking me for the time I was born.

The trees morph into brick, and suddenly I’m standing in front of the gift shop Kit and I visited in Norfolk. Aoife chatters happily at me while I barely listen, too distracted by a garden of flowers made of jewel-like stones. When I look up, Dylan is there with us, staring at me with such intensity that I feel like I’m burning from the inside out. And as I cast around searching for Kit, I spot him lurking on the opposite side of the street—except as my vision focuses, I realize it’s not him, but the faceless man with the teal scarf.

The buildings shift into the four posters of my bed in Windsor, almost exactly as they are, except the light pouring through the curtains is stained pink. Constance stands beside me with a silver-wrapped gift in her hand, and as our eyes meet, she doesn’t look away. She opens her mouth to say something, but before she can utter a word, everything goes black. And then it’s Ben standing there instead, his lips twisted into a half smirk in the indigo light.

My eyes fly open, and for a few horrible seconds, I forget where I am. My room is completely dark now, with the winter sun long set, and somewhere in the distance, I think I hear the sound of someone whispering my name again. Confused, I glance at the spot where Constance-then-Ben stood. There’s no one there—of course there isn’t, there never was—but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not alone.

“Evan?”

I suck in a breath, and the lamp on my desk switches on. But while the part of me that’s still half-asleep expects Ben or Constance to be perched on my couch, it’s my mom, her hair frizzy and the purple smudges beneath her eyes prominent. She looks like she’s barely slept in days, and I feel a pang of guilt.

“Sorry,” I say, clearing the thickness from my throat. My mouth is disgustingly dry, and I don’t remember the last time I had any water. “Go back to sleep.”

“I’m all right,” she promises, climbing to her feet. “How do you feel?”

“I don’t know,” I say, slowly easing myself up into a sitting position. The nerve block has worn off, and there’s a deep, constant ache in my shoulder that turns into a sharp stab every time I move. “Sore.”

She heads to my bedside table, and as I gently probe the bandage covering my wound, she opens a pill bottle and pours a glass of water from a pitcher. “Here,” she says, and I pop the painkillers into my mouth before downing the water in one go. “Are you hungry?”

As if on cue, my stomach growls. “I think that’s a yes,” I say, and she manages a breathy laugh.

“I’d say so, too.” She offers me her hand. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

Once I’ve brushed my teeth, my mom helps me change into clean clothes—an oversized sweatshirt and ratty pajama bottoms that Tibby has been threatening to burn for months now—and eases my arm into a sling. I’m still unsteady on my feet, but the world isn’t spinning anymore, and I feel more alert than I have since this all happened.

When she opens the door to my sitting room, however, I suddenly wonder if I’m still dreaming. Thousands of tiny colorful lights are strung up around the room, with longer strands crisscrossing overhead, giving everything a soft, ethereal glow. Garlands decorate the walls, and there are enough poinsettias crammed into corners that I could start my own flower shop. A wreath hangs on the inside of my door, and best of all, there’s a large Christmas tree in front of the window, covered in the same colorful string lights with a glittering star on top.

“What—” I begin, baffled, but then I hear a knock on the door. It creaks open before either my mother or I can say anything, and Maisie pokes her head inside.

“Evan?” Her voice is hushed, like someone else is still sleeping in the other room. As soon as our eyes meet, however, the softness in her posture vanishes, and she strides into my apartment like she owns it. She’s wearing an emerald-green ball gown and cherry-red lipstick, and when she reaches the spot where I’m rooted to the ground, she wraps her thin arms around me like I’m made of spun sugar, and one wrong move will make me collapse.

“Maisie?” I say, confused. “What’s going on? Did you do this?”

She nods into my shoulder, but she doesn’t say anything. And a moment later, I feel something warm drip down my neck and absorb into the collar of my shirt.

My sister is crying.

Ignoring the sharp ache in my chest, I carefully slip my good arm around her waist and hug her as tightly as I dare. “Everything’s okay, Mais. I’m okay.”

“Some—someone tried to kill you,” she says thickly, and her shoulders shake. “You and Kit and—and we don’t know who or—or why.”

Privately I think I know exactly who did it, even if I don’t know why. But before I can say anything, movement in the hallway catches my eye, and Alexander and Kit appear in the doorway. They’re both wearing tuxedos every bit as formal as Maisie’s gown, but my father’s bow tie hangs loose, and Kit’s sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, giving them both a strangely casual appearance.

“Why don’t we let Evan sit down, darling?” says Alexander as he joins us. Reluctantly Maisie lets me go, though her fingers wrap briefly around my wrist, featherlight and delicate.

“I’m just—really, really glad you’re all right,” she says, eyes still brimming. As Alexander eases me down onto the nearest sofa, my mother wordlessly hands her a tissue, and she takes it, dabbing her eyes. She must be wearing waterproof mascara, because her makeup doesn’t budge. “I—Kit and I, we didn’t want you to miss your first Christmas with the family, so we thought we’d bring Christmas to you.”