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The silhouette fades, and to my horror, a video clip starts to play—one of me and Aoife on the street outside the gift shop, filmed from at least thirty feet away. We’re chatting like old friends, and as we move toward the Range Rover, she throws her arms around me as she says goodbye—and in my attempt not to offend her, I look like I’m hugging back. It’s everything that damn photograph is, but worse, because no one, not even the palace, will be able to claim it’s fake now. Or that it was a simple meet and greet gone terribly, unthinkably wrong.

“Our undying thanks to Evangeline Bright for the important role she played,” says the pitched voice again, and I clutch the table so hard that I break a nail. “Without her contribution, our cause would have been lost, but now we are stronger than—”

Singh taps the keys again, and the screen goes blank. I open and shut my mouth, my head spinning as I try to think of something—anything—to explain why the apparent leader of the Army of the British Republic thanked me personally.

“I—I didn’t have anything to do with—” I begin shakily, but Wiggs covers my hand in a silent attempt to get me to shut up. I don’t, though—I physically can’t stop myself, and I pull away. “I don’t know these people. I only met that girl once, I swear—”

“I believe you,” says Singh, and the rest of my protest dies on my tongue.

“You—what?” I say as he glances at me, then at Wiggs, who must wear a similar expression of incredulity, because despite the fact that I’m staring down the barrel of treason, there’s a faint smile tugging at the corners of Singh’s mouth.

He finally sits in a chair at the head of the table, next to me rather than across. “Tell me, Miss Bright,” he says. “If you were running an underground organization determined to destroy the monarchy, and you were lucky enough to convince a member of the royal family to help, would you turn around and thank them publicly after failing to assassinate the King?”

This time I know better than to answer the question, and Wiggs clears his throat instead. “Miss Bright had nothing to do with the attempt on His Majesty’s life, and was herself a victim who very nearly died—”

“Yes,” says Singh with compassion I don’t expect. “I was sorry to hear about your personal protection officer, Evangeline. I’ve been to the site of the bombing, and there is no question that that could have been—perhaps was meant to be—you.”

I dig my nails into my palms as I remember the words Ben whispered to me only a few hours earlier. “She died to protect me,” I say roughly. “I would never—never help these people try to kill my family and friends.”

“On the outside looking in, there seems to be no sense in it, I agree,” he says. “Though just because I don’t see the connection right away doesn’t mean there isn’t one. In this particular case, however,” he adds, gesturing toward the laptop, “it is far too neat. It’s so perfect that it’s sloppy.”

I don’t know what to say to that, or if I should say anything at all, and so I let Wiggs do the talking yet again. “Miss Bright only met the alleged bomber once, during a brief outing in Norfolk—”

“A fact which Lord Clarence has confirmed—multiple times, each more insistent than the last,” says Singh. “I will need to hear your version of events, Evangeline. But for now, I’m far more curious why the Army of the British Republic would name you, specifically, as their accomplice.”

“Miss Bright had nothing to do with—”

“Yet again, Mr. Wiggs, I believe her.” Singh eyes the pair of us. “Do you think it might be possible to work under the presumption that I am an ally, not an enemy? My goal is to find out what happened to His Majesty and the victims of the bombing, and to identify the members of this organization before they can do any more harm. It is quite curious to me that they would name Evangeline rather than the much more plausible Lord Clarence, and I’d like to hear her thoughts on why.”

After a brief pause, Wiggs nods slightly toward me, and I gulp. “I don’t know,” I say at last. “None of it makes sense. That picture, the video—all of it had to be a setup, but I don’t know why.”

My voice breaks on this last word, but I force myself to hold it together, and again I hear Ben’s whisper.

It was meant to be you.

That wasn’t the only thing he said before leaving the conference room, though. And with a sudden stark clarity, I look at Singh, my eyes wide.

“Ben,” I blurt. “Prince Benedict, my cousin. He said something to me and Kit earlier—”

“Miss Bright,” says Wiggs in a warning tone, but when I feel his touch again, I jerk away.

“I’d like to hear what His Royal Highness said,” says Singh to Wiggs, but the words are already tumbling out of me.

“He told Kit—Christopher Abbott-Montgomery—he said something like, ‘my condolences for your most recent failure. Maybe you’ll finally get the job done next time.’ I didn’t understand what he was talking about,” I add quickly, before either Singh or Wiggs can interrupt. “But I didn’t know about—about the group Kit joined, or that Aoife was working for the bombers, or any of it.”

Singh pulls a small notepad out of his suit jacket and flips through a few pages. “I don’t recall Lord Clarence mentioning this interaction.”

“Ask him,” I say. “He’ll tell you. Ask everyone seated by the door in the conference room—they could hear it, too.”

Singh scribbles a note. “So you believe that your cousin, His Royal Highness Prince Benedict, is also trying to frame you?”

“That’s quite enough,” blusters Wiggs. “It’s one thing to question Miss Bright about her involvement when she has been named by the organization in question, but to drag His Royal Highness into this when he is not here to defend himself—”

“He told me it was meant to be me,” I say, and my voice wavers as my face grows hot. “In the conference room, before he accused Kit of being involved in the bombing—he whispered in my ear and said it was meant to be me.”

Singh leans forward before Wiggs can come up with a coherent response. “And you believe His Royal Highness was referring to…?”

“Ingrid,” I manage shakily. “Or maybe Alexander. I don’t know. It was a threat. All he does is threaten me. Back in June, he told me he was going to destroy me, and now every time I see him, it’s like he’s trying to decide what to put on my gravestone. He was there at Sandringham when someone tried to kill me and Kit, but even though he was with Alexander and the rest of the hunting party, I’m sure he had something to do with it, and—”