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After I jerk awake for the second time, Kit rubs my back until his hand stills and his breathing evens out. Not wanting to disturb him again, I slip away and settle onto the sofa in my sitting room instead, taking my laptop with me.

I spend the next three hours distracting myself by reading the comments about Helene’s interview on various gossip sites. Some call her a liar and insist she’s trying to save face, while others support her wholeheartedly and drag my mother’s name through the mud—and occasionally mine, calling us leeches and her a succubus and all kinds of things that would make Constance proud.

Most of all, though, the people blame Alexander. Not everyone, of course. Some empathize with him, or pity him, or focus on the real villain in all of this—an archaic system that imprisons everyone born into it, then drapes them in gold and jewels and privilege beyond compare so no one will ever believe their pain.

But too many push their anger onto him, assigning him motivations and emotions and sinister traits that turn him into the worst of humanity, ignoring that he was in an impossible situation and allowed to make mistakes. All they want is a demon to hate, and in Alexander, they’ve found one in spades.

The revelations from Helene’s interview dominate the news cycle, with her face plastered on the front page of every single news site I visit. But when I type out the Regal Record’s address—more out of habit than any desire to see what they’re saying—I’m instead faced with a paparazzi shot of Maisie and Gia exiting a club in what I think is Soho.

I recognize the outfit Maisie is wearing—a cute blue dress I helped her pick out sometime in September, before it grew too cold to need a jacket. Despite the packed pavement, there are several feet between her and Gia as they walk past a cluster of photographers, and unlike the shots featured in the roundup the Regal Record posted last week, they both look miserable.

Princess Mary and Lady Gia Suffer Falling-Out Amidst Royal Adultery Scandal

While the rest of the world is focused on the sensational surprise interview with Queen Helene that aired earlier tonight on the BBC—and we’ll certainly get there, too—we at the Regal Record have received word of yet another royal breakup: Princess Mary and Lady Georgiana Greyville, who have known each other since nappies, have reportedly suffered a dramatic falling-out.

Lady Gia, as she’s known to close friends and family, allegedly rushed to Windsor to check on her princess after a crowd barrier broke yesterday morning at the Royal London Children’s Hospital, leaving Her Royal Highness with a sprained wrist and other minor injuries. Their reunion was short-lived, however, as Lady Gia stormed out of the heir to the throne’s private apartment mere minutes later, leaving the princess utterly bereft. The catalyst behind their fight? A bouquet of roses from a very presidential American suitor.

While we wouldn’t dare presume that these two besties have ever been anything more than the closest of friends, one must wonder why a sweet, but hardly personal, gift would lead to a shouting match heard throughout the halls of Windsor Castle.

To remember happier times between Her Royal Highness and Lady Gia, click the gallery below.

I read the article twice, too exhausted to be sure I’m not imagining things. But there they are, in neat black font on white background—details that no journalist or gossip blog should know about Maisie and Gia’s fight. And as I scroll through the most recent entries, I realize it’s more than the roses or their breakup. The Regal Record knew about Maisie’s injuries, too. And the time stamp is less than an hour after we returned from London.

Someone in the castle—someone close to the royal family—is running directly to the Regal Record with insider information.

My mind races through the names and faces of everyone I saw at Windsor Castle that day, tripping over possibilities and half theories that don’t make any sense, and I’m so distracted that I don’t notice the whispers at first. They start out soft—so soft that they sound like a faint buzz, or maybe the rush of blood through my pounding heart. But as soon as I realize they have nothing to do with my too-fast pulse, they grow louder, and I slowly register the fact that the whispers are saying something—something I can’t make out until I do. And this time, it isn’t my name.

“You die today.”

Terror cuts through me, so sharp and tangible that it might as well be a knife. I slam my laptop shut and leap to my feet, heading straight for the only weapon I can think of—a weighty silver candlestick on my mantel. Though it isn’t much, I clutch it in both hands as the whispers surround me, repeating themselves again and again like some demonic nursery rhyme.

“You die today.”

“You die today.”

“You die today.”

“Evan?”

I jump. Kit is standing in the doorway to my bedroom, his hair wild, his pajamas rumpled, and his eyes half-closed with sleep, and I’m so relieved to see him that I almost burst into tears.

“Can you hear that?” I say, not entirely sure I want to know the answer.

He cocks his head, listening for a long moment, and I can’t tell if the faint whispers that echo in my mind are real, or if they’re nothing more than figments of my imagination now.

“I’m sorry, Ev,” he says at last. “I don’t hear anything.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, but the strange sounds have already disappeared. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I say, my voice tight and frantic and one wrong note away from snapping. “I keep hearing these whispers, ever since Sandringham. Mostly they say my name, but sometimes it’s laughter or even music I’ve never heard before, and—and I can’t tell where it’s coming from, but today—just now—they said—they said—”

“Evan.” Kit gently takes my shoulders and leans down so our foreheads are pressed together. “Just breathe, all right? Just for a minute.”

I stare into his liquid brown eyes as we both inhale and exhale at the same time. I’m dizzy again, but at least the whispers are gone, and when he touches my cheek, I don’t know what tosay.

“Did you sleep at all?” he murmurs, and I shake my head.

“Not really,” I manage. “I was on my laptop.”

He brushes his lips against mine. “You’re exhausted. We have a few hours before you have to be at breakfast, so why don’t we go back to bed? I’ll chase Tibby off and wake you in time.”