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“I’ll make sure no one stops you,” says Jenkins. And after another beat, he wordlessly takes my hand, as if reassuring himself that I’m really there. “Sometimes I wish I’d never brought you to England in the first place,” he admits so quietly that I barely hear him.

“But I’m glad you did,” I say.

“Even after all this?”

“Especially after all this.” I glance at Kit, who’s still asleep. He looks calmer now, like his nightmare has passed. “I like having people in my life who are worth a few bombs and bullets.”

“It’s hardly our typical British welcome,” he says, and I shrug.

“You’re all worth it.”

After I check in on my mom and Alexander, whose condition hasn’t changed, Jenkins and several protection officers escort Kit and me into a parking garage beneath the hospital, and we emerge into the predawn London morning in a Range Rover with bulletproof windows and armored plating around its frame.

Even though our location is supposed to be a secret, half the journalists on the planet are waiting for us at the exit, and Kit and I watch wordlessly through the tinted windows as they try to swarm the vehicle. The police hold them back behind the barriers, though, and our security team sees us swiftly onto the dark city streets, where we speed away from the hospital toward the relative safety of Windsor Castle.

“How bad is it?” I say to Jenkins. “The press coverage, I mean.”

“It’s the top story in virtually every English-speaking country around the world, and the majority that aren’t,” he says. “The BBC has been running wall-to-wall coverage of the bombing, though with no official word on His Majesty’s condition, it’s all speculation. I’d imagine our exit is already being shown on a loop.”

“Are they wearing black?” says Kit, and though I don’t understand the reference, Jenkins shakes his head.

“Not yet. Though there are plenty of rumors that it’s only a matter of time.”

Kit grimaces. “Are there plans to release an official statement?”

“As soon as Her Majesty feels it will not be misleading.”

Kit must notice my confusion, because he says quietly, “Aunt Helene is—or was—waiting to see if he makes it through the night.”

“Oh.” I don’t know how I feel about the thought of Helene still being such an important part in all of this, not when she hung my parents out to dry less than two days ago. But her interview feels so inconsequential now that I can barely muster up any anger toward her. Just bone-deep exhaustion I’m not sure will ever go away.

We reach Windsor Castle as a hint of pink appears on the horizon, and even more journalists are waiting for us at the gates. This time, security has already cleared the road, and we speed through without so much as slowing down.

Tibby stands at the entrance nearest the private apartments, clutching her tablet as she watches us approach. I notice she’s wearing low heels today, along with a gray dress that’s so dark it’s almost black, and somehow these are the details that make it all feel real to me—that make me realize this is going to impact the rest of our lives, and nothing will ever be the same.

She hugs me fiercely as soon as we’re inside, and I let her fuss over me on our way to my apartment. She doesn’t ask any questions about Alexander or the details of the bombing, and I don’t know if it’s out of respect or because there’s a blanket ban on trying to wheedle information out of us. Either way, I’m grateful, though when she notices the bandage on my leg, I actually see her bite her tongue.

Kit and I separate long enough to wash the dust and blood away, and once I’m dressed, I head out into my sitting room, fully expecting Kit to be waiting for me alongside Tibby. But there’s no sign of either of them, and instead I’m greeted by my frantically pacing sister.

“It’s about bloody time.” She pounces toward me with the speed and grace of a jungle cat, and I do my best not to grunt asshe tackles me in a hug. I’m sorer now than I was in the immediate aftermath of the bombing, and my shoulder still aches, which doesn’t exactly help. But I can tell from how tightly sheholds me that she needs this, and I delicately hug her in return.

“Good call, staying home yesterday,” I say in a pitiful attempt at a joke. But as soon as she pulls away and I see the tears brimming in her eyes, I immediately regret it.

“Have you seen him?” she says, her lower lip trembling. “No one will let me leave. Mummy told me it’s touch and go, but beyond that, I don’t know a thing, and I’ve been going mad trying to figure out a way to visit him—”

“I saw him right before we left,” I say, trying to sound reassuring. “My mom and Constance have been with him all night. He’s…”

I pause. I don’t want to scare her more than she already is, but I don’t want to give her false hope, either. My ears are ringing again, faintly now, and I suck in a breath.

“We’ll find a way for you to see him after the meeting,” I say at last. “Even if we have to sneak you out of here.”

She wipes her eyes, and I can tell she understands everything I’m not saying. “I don’t know if that’ll be possible,” she admits. “The prime minister himself told me to stay put. It’s a matter of national security, apparently.”

Privately I agree. I don’t want to imagine the chaos if Maisie is somehow hurt in all this, too. “Then we’ll VidChat my mom, all right? We’ll figure it out. Now tell me about this meeting and why you decided to drag me out of bed so early.”

I expect this to be a neutral topic, or at the very least easier to bear than the thought of Alexander’s mangled body, but Maisie’s lower lip quivers again, and I think she might actually burst into tears.

“The entire senior staff will be there,” she manages, her voice not much more than a squeak. “I’m of age now, and—and they’ll all be—looking to me for instruction, but—” She sniffs and dabs at her cheeks with the cuff of her midnight-blue sweater. “I don’t know what to do, Evan. This wasn’t supposed to happen for decades.”