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“Thank you,” I say as I glance around the room again, taking in the lights and decorations. “Really. This is incredible.”

“It was all Maisie’s idea,” says Kit, bending down over the arm of the sofa and giving me a peck on the cheek. “Happy Christmas, Evan. How do you feel?”

“Better, I think,” I say, and he’s still hovering close enough for me to steal a quick, but real, kiss, even though my parents are watching—and are probably the reason for his restraint. “I’m sorry for ruining Christmas.”

“You didn’t ruin a bloody thing,” says Alexander as several footmen carry dome-covered platters into the room. “We’ve got a few hours left, so why don’t we make the most of it?”

While he, Kit, and Maisie rally around the tree, decorating the branches with glittering ornaments that look like they’re made of real crystal, my mother tucks a blanket around me and brushes my tangled hair. Christmas music plays softly in the background, and even though it’s probably the blood loss, there’s something magical about all of this—something that fills me with warm contentment and giddiness that only seems to expand, chasing away the last of the somber shadows. The royal family has always felt more royal than family to me, but in this moment, with the people I love most chatting and laughing together, I almost forget that my father is King, that my sister is the future queen, and that most of the country thinks my mom and I have no place here. Nothing outside my sitting room matters as we pass around plates full of food, and then presents, each more ridiculous than the last.

“Really?” says Alexander, holding up a bobblehead of himself, complete with a giant crown. When the head wobbles, a tinny voice declares, “Gather ’round, ladies, to see the King’s crown jewels!”

My mouth drops open, and from the armchair, Maisie immediately pales. “I had no idea it did that,” she insists, but she’s mostly drowned out by Alexander’s sharp guffaw.

“Of all the bloody things…,” he says, shaking the bobblehead again.

“King Philanderer II at your service, m’lady!”

He throws his head back, and any lingering hint of propriety dissolves into howls of laughter. My mother joins in, reaching for the toy to take a closer look, and even Kit chuckles as I manage a tired grin. Only Maisie, whose face is bright red, is unamused.

“I’m going to bloody murder Fitz,” she mutters, and I immediately feel a stab of pity for her hapless private secretary.

“On the contrary,” says our father, now wiping tears from his eyes, “I think I owe him a pay rise.”

We pass around the bobblehead and listen to it repeat its assortment of sordid phrases until I wince from laughter, and my mother pointedly sets the toy aside. While most of the gifts are jokes—though none of the rest are nearly as funny—her gift to me is a framed photograph I’ve never seen before.

It’s a picture of her and Alexander, both much younger, and a baby that can only be me. We’re sitting beside a Christmas tree, the lights twinkling behind us, and they’re focused on me as I seemingly do my best to rip the wrapping paper from a stuffed bear. They’re smiling—the kind of secret, genuine smiles not meant for the camera—and I can just make out their joined hands.

“This was your first Christmas,” says my mother softly. “I know you don’t remember it, but your father and I do.”

I touch the frame, not knowing what to say. I wish I could remember it. I wish I could remember every moment from those first few years, when my parents were still happy and together, even if Alexander was living a double life with Helene and Maisie. I wish I could remember a time when none of us had to make room for estrangements and arrests and the scandal of just existing.

“I love it,” I say, setting my head on her shoulder. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Evie,” she murmurs as she kisses my hair. “I’m just relieved we have this Christmas, too.”

Maisie leans over to peer at the photo. “Oh—that’s the one that was on your desk for the Christmas speech, isn’t it?” she says to Alexander, who nods.

“I hoped it might go a long way to silence the conspiracy theorists,” he says, and I don’t need to ask which ones he’s talking about. My mother’s been vilified and called all kinds of names in the press, which seems fixated on the lie that she trapped and extorted him with a pregnancy he didn’t want. I didn’t realize it bothered Alexander so much, but as he watches my mother, it’s clear that it does.

“And that,” says Maisie, pointing to the record player that’s currently spitting out a Bing Crosby Christmas song, “is from me and Kit. Along with the record collection beneath it.”

“Really?” I say, craning my neck as much as I dare. The cabinet the record player sits on is covered in Christmas decorations, but it’s definitely new, and the shelves are crammed full of vinyl records. “You and Kit did that?”

He nods. “We had to guess at some of your favorites, but I think we found most of them. And,” he teases, glancing at my sister, “only half or so are Taylor Swift albums.”

Maisie lifts her chin defiantly. “She’s universal. And they’re signed,” she adds, and I grin.

“One more reason for the entire world to hate me,” I say. “I love it.”

We’re passing around something called Christmas pudding, which looks suspiciously like a steaming mountain of fruitcake, when another knock sounds on the door. Alexander calls for whoever it is to enter, but as soon as I see who’s on the other side, I immediately wish he hadn’t.

Venetia stands in the threshold, her blond hair pulled into a fancy updo that shows off the low bodice of her glittering scarlet gown. She wears a plastered-on smile that makes her Botox obvious, and a gift is tucked into her bare arms.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” she says sweetly, curtsying to my father and Maisie. “I just wanted to see how Evangeline is feeling.”

“I’m fine,” I say, forcing a small smile. It quickly drops, however, when Venetia enters the room, and I spot a figure lurking in the corridor behind her.

Ben.