Page 67

After she dabs her eyes and resumes her prickly royal demeanor, I pepper her with questions, and she tersely explains that both Maisie and Helene have been told by the prime minister and home secretary to stay where they are, in case of another attack. This is what she meant when she said that no one cares what happens to her, I realize—she’s not in the line of succession, and she’s considered as expendable as I am. But Alexander is also her son, and as much as she and I don’t like each other, I’m glad someone from the family is here.

Our shared fear and frustration with the lack of updates does a strange thing as we wait—it makes me feel like we actually have something in common. It’s far from a familial bond, but by the time the sound of an argument filters in from the corridor outside my room, I’m almost starting to warm up to her. Almost.

“What on earth…,” mutters Constance as she stands and marches toward the door, but despite the high-pitched tone that still lingers in my ears, I immediately recognize one of the voices.

“That’s Kit,” I say urgently, climbing out of bed, but Constance flings open the door before my feet touch the ground.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demands. Kit stands a few steps away, physically blocked from the entrance by two protection officers with their holstered weapons now on full display.

“I just need to see—Evan!” says Kit, the relief in his voice palpable as he spots me over Constance’s shoulder. “Are you all right? Would you bloody let me go?”

“Get your hands off him,” says Constance sharply as I stumble across the freezing floor, my injured leg protesting as a dozen stitches tug against my skin. “Lord Clarence is family and well within his rights to be here.”

The protection officers step aside, and Kit offers my grandmother a grateful bow of his head before hurrying past her and into the room. He catches me in his arms, lifting me off the ground as he holds me to him.

“Bloody hell, Ev,” he mumbles into my hair, his voice choked with tears. “You have to stop doing this to me.”

“Not my choice, trust me,” I say, wrapping my arms around his neck. I can feel the edge of a bandage against my skin, and when I pull away enough to peer at him, I see several small cuts across his face, including one beneath his eye that required stitches. “You’re okay?”

“Fine,” he promises. “Climbing the bloody walls trying to find out how you are. MI5’s here, and they wouldn’t tell me anything—”

“No one is being told a thing,” says Constance. “The press must be kept in the dark about the King’s condition, is that understood?”

“He’s alive?” says Kit, and I can tell by the catch in his voice that he wasn’t expecting this. “At the museum, I thought…he was buried, and when they found him…”

His throat works hard, and I press my cheek to his. Dust still clings to his hair, turning parts of it ashy gray, and I realize he’s dressed in hospital scrubs. “You saw what happened?”

“Only bits,” he says. “One of the PPOs pinned me to the ground, but I could still see you. Ingrid threw herself at you, and then…then the column fell, and…”

My insides churn, and suddenly I think I’m going to be sick. “Ingrid?” I manage. “She was—she was with me?”

I see the body again, the blood and the bone and the parts I don’t want to identify, and I press my lips together, as if that’ll stop the contents of my stomach from coming up. But when Kit nods wordlessly, I let him go, and he sets me down just in time for me to grab the plastic bin next to my bed and be sick.

Someone calls for a nurse, and Kit crouches beside me, rubbing my back as I retch. He murmurs something, but the high pitch in my ears grows louder, drowning out his voice.

Ingrid was only there because of me—because I demanded that Alexander bring me. If I hadn’t, if I’d listened to him and stayed behind, or if I’d trusted my gut and not gotten out of that car in the first place, she would still be alive. The other people in the body bags—maybe they’d still be alive, too. Alexander wouldn’t have noticed the flowers, and he would’ve been in a different part of the lobby. And maybe, maybe—

I’m sick again, and a few seconds later, I feel the prick of a needle in my arm. I expect to black out—I expect them to sedate me like they did in A&E—but instead all that happens is that my nausea subsides as quickly as it came.

“There we go,” says a nurse, offering me a tissue as I sit back up. Her voice is muffled by the ringing in my ears, but that, too, slowly eases until I can hear myself panting. Kit presses a glass of water into my hand, and I’m so dazed that I don’t think twice before drinking it.

Ingrid’s dead, and this time, it really is my fault.

Kit helps me back onto the bed as the nurse fetches some crackers, but I sit sideways, my legs dangling and my head in my hands. “I shouldn’t have been there,” I whisper. “Alexander didn’t want me to go. If I’d listened to him, then Ingrid…”

“That’s not fair,” says Kit. “You didn’t know this was going to happen, Ev.”

“I think I did,” I say, so softly I’m not even sure my voice carries. But he squeezes my knee, and I know he heard. “Those whispers in my sitting room…”

“That had nothing to do with this,” says Kit. “Okay? You didn’t know this would happen, and it isn’t your fault. You had no control over any of it. Whoever did this—”

I look at him suddenly, my eyes bleary as I feel myself go pale. “The man in the teal scarf,” I say. “The one in the crowd—”

“Who?” says an unfamiliar male voice in the doorway, and Kit and I both turn.

Constance has disappeared into the hallway, and in her place stands a tall man with thick black hair, dark skin, and a sharp charcoal suit. There’s something overwhelmingly intimidating about him—even more so than the protection officers carrying loaded guns—and I look nervously at Kit.

Kit clears his throat. “Evangeline, this is Suraj Singh. He’s from MI5.”