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I blink, and his face swims into focus. The line between his brows is deep with concern, and his blue eyes are so intensely fixed on me that it looks like he’s trying to keep me upright through sheer willpower alone.

“Jenkins,” I choke out, still clutching Ben’s daisy. I didn’t close the door to his room, I realize. And Jenkins isn’t oblivious. “I—I was just—”

I trail off, the lump in my throat too big for me to finish, and to my horror, hot tears roll down my cheeks. Without a word, he pulls me to his chest, and we stand like that for a long moment, my face buried in his shoulder as he murmurs in my ear—murmurs that sound eerily like the whispers that I can still hear if I focus on the silence.

I don’t know how to explain this. I can’t explain this, not without telling him everything, but part of me—a very small, terrified part of me—wants to. Jenkins has spent half my life fixing my problems, but right now, with the monarchy on his shoulders, I refuse to add to a burden that must already be impossible to bear. And what can he do, anyway? Reassure me that Ben isn’t allowed in Windsor anymore? Tell me everything will be all right, even though we both know it won’t be?

“I’m worried about you, darling,” he says at last. “You haven’t been reading the papers, have you?”

“Tibby won’t let me near them,” I mumble. “Or social media. Or her phone.”

“Good,” he says, tucking my hair behind my ear as he studies me for a long moment. “Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?”

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “I think Tibby has me down for a long, aimless walk around the castle from now until lunch, and then after that, I’ll be busy staring at the walls and, if I can squeeze it in, having a minor breakdown before dinner. The major one comes after,” I add, trying to smile, but my face won’t cooperate. “And then, of course, there’s the two to four hours of lying awake at night, worrying about everything. Sleep is optional.”

“Mm, quite busy, then, I see,” says Jenkins, and he plucks a handkerchief from his pocket and presses it into my hand. “Do you think, just for today, you might be able to make some room in your schedule for a hospital visit? Your mother’s been asking after you, and I think it’d do you both some good to spend time together.”

I open my mouth, but for a moment, nothing comes out. She hasn’t left Alexander’s side since the bombing, and I miss her so much that just the thought of her makes me feel like I’ve swallowed acid. “MI5 told me to stay here.”

“And since when do you do what you’re told?” says Jenkins kindly. “Or is it only me you refuse to listen to?”

I shake my head. “Singh told me that if I go see her, I could make her a target.”

“We’ll be discreet,” Jenkins assures me. “There’s no safer place in England right now than your father’s bedside. And, if you’ll excuse my candor, given the state you’re in, I think the real danger is what may happen if you stay away any longer.”

I should say no. I should keep as much distance between my parents and me as possible until every member of the ABR is behind bars. But those damn tears start again, and my chin trembles as I nod.

“Okay,” I say, barely audible, and he sets a comforting hand on my shoulder to guide me back down the corridor. My fingers tighten around the daisy stem, and I know that no matter how much space I put between me and that wardrobe, it—and Ben—will taunt me until I find a way to trap him in his own snare of lies.

CHAPTER THIRTY

LORD CLARENCE PICTURED COSYING UP TO BOMBER MONTHS BEFORE ATTACK

Christopher Abbott-Montgomery, Earl of Clarence, has been having a secret affair with close friend Aoife Marsh, one of three suspects arrested at the site of the Modern Music Museum bombing that claimed the lives of eight people and has left His Majesty the King in critical condition.

Photos of the pair cuddling at a local pub last November have surfaced, months after they met through mutual friends at Oxford University, and a member of the couple’s inner circle has confirmed the relationship.

“Everyone knows Christopher and Aoife have been sneaking around, spending the night together and snogging in dark corners when they think no one is watching,” says the source, who wished to remain anonymous. “He’s tired of the constant drama surrounding Evangeline, and when he’s had too much to drink, he always goes on about how she won’t let him touch her after what that Jasper bloke did to her. I guess he finally got tired of waiting. I know I would.”

Clarence, 19, is currently rumoured to be a suspect in the bombing, along with his girlfriend of seven months, Evangeline Bright, illegitimate daughter of the King, who was specifically thanked by the Army of the British Republic for her participation in the terrorist attack. Both the Home Office and the Palace have declined tocomment on the duo’s connection to the ongoing investigation.

—The Daily Sun, 17 January 2024

AN HOUR LATER, JENKINS AND I walk down the hallway of the hospital together as every single person—staff and guard alike—eyes me like I’m about to pull a grenade from my pocket and lob it into the nearest crowd.

It’s jarring, to say the least, and it leaves me both queasy and questioning why I’m here in the first place. “Does my mom know?” I say softly as we pass through yet another checkpoint of the seemingly infinite layers of security that surround my father.

“She doesn’t know anything about the investigation or the claims against you and Lord Clarence,” says Jenkins at a volume that matches mine. “You may tell her if you’d like, and perhaps it would be good if you did. But I didn’t want to do so without your permission.”

The thought of telling my mother that the world thinks I helped plan the bombing is enough to make me wish I had a vomit bin. “Not yet,” I mumble, and Jenkins nods, mercifully leaving it at that.

As we approach my father’s hospital room, both protection officers at the door shift their stance as they scrutinize me. I try to pretend I don’t see their hands twitch toward their hidden holsters, but they’re not exactly subtle about it.

“Gentlemen,” says Jenkins as we stop in front of the room. “Miss Bright is here to visit His Majesty.”

The larger of the two steps toward me. “All visitors are required to be searched—”

“We’ve been searched three times already, as you very well know,” says Jenkins. “Both the palace and Home Office have already determined that the claims against Miss Bright are baseless, and that she is not a threat. Do you know something we don’t?”