Page 49

Every single vase is full of blood-red daisies.

In an instant, the eerie text I received this morning makes sense, and a strange buzz hums in my ears, growing louder with each second. Of course it’s Ben. Of course he’s the one who’s watching, who somehow knows exactly where I am and what I’m doing, even though he’s hundreds of miles away.

Suddenly I’m acutely aware of the healing wound in my chest, and as my pace starts to slow, Tibby is by my side in an instant, every bit as calm and collected as she always is.

“Are you all right, Miss Bright?” she says, and I nod, even though I’m not really sure.

“The crowd was just…a lot,” I say quietly as we fall a few steps behind. “And those flowers…”

“What about them?” says Tibby, glancing at the bouquets. But if she recognizes them from my appearance at Wimbledon, she says nothing.

“Ben sends them to me,” I admit, my voice falling to a whisper. “And I got a weird text this morning that I think—”

“Miss Bright?”

I look up. Peggy has stopped at a pair of double doors, and both she and Maisie—and everyone else tagging along with us—are watching me, concerned.

“I’m sorry,” I say with what I know isn’t a convincing smile. “I was just admiring the flowers.”

Peggy beams. “Oh, aren’t they lovely? They arrived from the palace this morning. Just the touch of cheer we needed, wouldn’t you say?”

I nod in polite agreement, ignoring the fact that Tibby is now in a hushed conversation with one of the protection officers nearby. “They’re beautiful,” I say, my mouth dry.

Peggy continues through the double doors, happily chatting away about the opening of the new wing we’re touring, and Tibby presses something into my hand—a cold bottle of water.

“Small sips,” she says under her breath. “And if you feel like you’re about to faint, tell me so we can go somewhere private.”

“I’m fine,” I whisper, but I sip the water as instructed. The moment I’m done, Tibby steals the bottle back and hides it in her handbag, as if admitting that a member of the royal family can be thirsty is a cardinal sin.

The water helps, and I fall into step beside my sister as Peggy guides us through the wing, introducing us to more members of the staff and showing us the latest technological advances funded by the trust. Even among the bustle of saving lives, the atmosphere is warm and comforting, and everyone seems delighted to see us. It’s such an about-face from the crowd outside that my overwrought nervous system finally begins to unclench, and by the time we reach a playroom full of waiting children, I’m sincerely happy to be there.

The kids are lined up to meet us—or at least the older ones are, while the younger ones are too busy with their toys to bother with two strangers in heels. There’s a colorful banner stretched across the windows that reads Welcome Princesses, and it’s so damn sweet that I almost feel like one.

Maisie and I read handmade cards, admire drawings, and listen to countless stories from the parents who hover nearby as they tell us all the hospital has done for their children. We split up at one point—Maisie sits at a low table to make paper flowers with a group of chatty kids, while I kneel on the floor in my coatdress to play blocks with a little girl named Elsie. Her mother looks on, a bit misty-eyed, and the official photographer spends an uncomfortable amount of time focused on the three of us. Maybe everything in the lobby was for show, but these moments feel personal.

At last, after more than ten minutes, I hug Elsie and thank her mother for her time. By now my feet are half-asleep, and I stumble slightly as I stand, using the back of a nearby chair for support. But before I can even right myself, Tibby is there, her arm looped through mine and a fake smile plastered on her face.

“Miss Bright,” says Tibby smoothly, “why don’t we step out into the hallway for a moment?”

This is definitely not a suggestion, and before I can protest, she starts to lead me forward. I try to dig my heels in without making it obvious, but then Ingrid is there, and between the two of them, I don’t stand a chance.

“Really, I’m okay,” I insist once we’ve stepped into the hallway. “My foot fell asleep, that’s all.”

They both continue to ignore me as Tibby guides me into a nearby room, where a nurse is waiting, clearly on call for exactly this scenario. Ingrid stands guard outside, and I reluctantly sink into a chair, though only because my leg is tingling with pins and needles.

“This is totally unnecessary,” I protest as the nurse takes my blood pressure. “Tibby, seriously, I’m fine—”

“Your color is off,” says Tibby. “And you looked like you were seconds away from passing out in the lobby. While I expect that might do the trick of commandeering a few headlines from Her Majesty, that is not how your father wants it to happen.”

“Her Royal Highness’s pressure is low, and her skin’s a bit clammy,” says the nurse apologetically, like this is somehow her fault.

“I’m not a Royal Highness,” I say with a sigh. “And I’m sweaty because the playroom was warm. Tibby, come on—I’m fine, and people are going to notice that I’m missing.”

She sniffs. “If by some miracle Fitz is doing his job, Maisie ought to be handing out plastic tiaras and swords right about now, and I expect that will be enough to distract everyone for a while. You need to take a moment.”

I grit my teeth, but no matter what I say, I know Tibby won’t budge, not when she’s convinced I’m one misstep away from collapsing in public. And so, when the nurse leaves us with another bottle of water and some cookies, I nibble on them grudgingly as Tibby checks her phone.

“Those flowers in the lobby,” she says without preamble. “What did you mean, Ben sent them?”