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Bewildered, I search the photo for some hidden image—some clue as to why they’re all panicking. “Those are Kit’s friends from school,” I say. “We ran into them when we were picking up presents for my mom. That’s right after Maisie texted Kit about Ben—we were heading back, and—”

“So you do know her?” says Maisie like this is somehow a massive betrayal.

“Aoife? No, not really. This is the only time we ever met. She hugged me before I could get away, that’s all. Kit—” I say, turning to him for confirmation, but his entire body is hunched over the back of my chair now, and he looks like he’s about to collapse.

“Evan,” says Jenkins in a measured voice. “This woman’s name is Aoife Marsh. You’re absolutely certain this is the only time you two have met?”

“Positive,” I say, my heart thumping so hard that I can hear my pulse. “Please, just tell me what’s going on. You’re scaring me.”

For a split second, no one replies. But at last, with a heavy sigh, Jenkins swipes to another tab, and the BBC home page appears. A single headline dominates the screen:

Terrorists Behind Bombing Identified

“The Home Office has released the names of the suspects arrested yesterday in connection to the bombing,” says Jenkins. “And Aoife Marsh—the girl you’re hugging in this photo—is one of them.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

We at the Regal Record can exclusively reveal that Evangeline Bright, illegitimate daughter of the King, is allegedly a close friend of one of the suspected terrorists in the bombing of the Modern Music Museum in London.

Evangeline and Aoife Marsh, 19, pictured together below, met last year through Christopher Abbott-Montgomery, Earl of Clarence, and the two have reportedly been in constant contact ever since. Marsh was one of three suspects arrested at the scene of the bombing yesterday morning, during an official visit from the King, whose condition remains unknown. Eight others were killed in the blast, including two royal protection officers thought to be guarding His Majesty.

Both Evangeline and Lord Clarence were present during the attack, though the couple, who began dating this past summer, were released from a London hospital in the early hours of this morning. Evangeline was infamously involved in the death of Jasper Cunningham this past June, but was not charged despite alluding to her guilt in a live interview that aired weeks later.

There has so far been no word from the Home Office on the connection between Evangeline, Lord Clarence, and Marsh, though we can only hope that with eight families mourning the loss of their loved ones today, no one, not even the daughter of the King, will be above the law this time.

—The Regal Record, 13 January 2024

AOIFE, KIT’S SWEET AND BUBBLY friend from university, tried to kill my father.

Aoife, whose beaming face is clearly visible over my shoulder in the image on Doyle’s tablet, is responsible for the deaths of Ingrid and seven other innocent people.

Aoife, who’s hugging me like we’re best friends and have known each other our entire lives, is an actual terrorist.

And somehow the only picture of us together has surfaced barely twenty-four hours after the bombing.

My stomach twists so violently that I think I might be sick, and slowly, as if one wrong move will make me fall apart, I sink down onto the edge of the mahogany table, my head spinning.

I don’t know what to say. There’s nothing to say, not when the media will take this picture and wring every last drop of conjecture and bad-faith assumption out of it. Even if the palace tries to claim it’s photoshopped, even if the royal press office manages to convince the BBC and CNN and every other major news outlet that Aoife and I’ve only met once, this single photo will inevitably make headlines around the world. And this time, it’ll be my name trending with #offwithherhead.

“Do we know where it came from?” says Jenkins to Doyle, who grunts ambiguously.

“A gossip site called the Regal Record posted it fifteen minutes ago,” he says, and Maisie sneers. “I already have my team trying to get them to take it down, but—”

“They won’t,” says Jenkins grimly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Bloody hell. How do we get ahead of this?”

“I don’t know that we do,” admits Doyle. “We can release a statement making it clear that she and Evangeline have no connection, but it won’t do any good, not if Lord Clarence knows her. The media will immediately frame it as a cover-up.”

Maisie crosses her arms tightly over her chest, her lower lip caught between her teeth before she speaks. “Talk to us, Kit. How do you know these people? Why do you know these people?”

Kit’s eyes are still glued to the floor, and when he speaks, it seems to take him an enormous amount of effort. “I knew Dylan at Eton,” he rasps like he hasn’t had water in days. “We ended up on the same course at university. I…I didn’t suspect anything was off until recently, but—”

“Until recently?” I blurt, stunned. “You knew they were…?”

“No,” he says firmly, and finally he looks at me. “I didn’t know they were involved in this sort of thing, Evan, I swear. They—” He grimaces. “They’re members of a group called Fox Rex.”

“The dinner club?” says Doyle, seemingly flabbergasted. “I remember it from my Christ Church days. Wasn’t it banned years ago?”

“Yes,” says Kit, but his focus is still on me. “Though apparently it was resurrected as a secret society. Over the summer, I discovered that my brother was a member, and…they invited me to join at the start of term.”