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“And yet all evidence points directly to you. What a terrible coincidence, if it truly wasn’t.” The honeyed venom in her voice is back, and a shiver runs through me like I’ve stepped outside into the winter chill. “You’ve already given the world plenty of reasons to hate you, Evangeline, but I am more than happy to offer them another. Now go, before I have you dragged out by your damn ear.”

I swallow hard, and for a moment, I think I might cry, but I refuse to give Helene the satisfaction. Maisie looks furious, too, but she doesn’t speak up again. And Stephens stares at his feet, still clutching his tablet and clearly uninterested in correcting his queen—or maybe he thinks I did it, too. Maybe they all do, and there’s nothing I’ll ever be able to say to get out of this one.

Fine. If Helene wants to burn it all down, then so be it.

“No matter how much the people hate me,” I say through gritted teeth, “it’ll never make them love you again. You will always be the heartless monster who left the King for his own brother—who lied to the people about your marriage for decades, and who hasn’t visited her husband a single time since he was nearly blown to pieces. That’s your legacy. That’s what the world will remember about you. And there is nothing—nothing you can do to change it.”

For a split second, Helene looks like I’ve slapped her, and part of me wishes I had. But as she opens her mouth—maybe to retort, maybe to tell Stephens to throw me into the courtyard by my hair—I slip past her and head toward the archway, refusing to look anyone in the eye. Even Maisie.

The entrance hall isn’t empty, like I expect. Instead, Nicholas stands near the front door, along with another familiar man in an equally familiar suit. Suraj Singh.

Though I’m still in my pajamas, which carry more than a faint whiff of smoke, I hold my head high as I stride toward the exit, intent on ignoring them completely. But as I approach, Nicholas moves between me and the double doors.

“Evangeline,” he says, barely audible over Helene’s furious screeches echoing from the reception room, her words mercifully indecipherable. “Please accept my apologies for Her Majesty’s behavior. We—she’s had quite a scare this morning, and I’m afraid with everything else that’s happened as of late, she isn’t handling it well.”

“I don’t care,” I say coldly. “She’s your problem, not mine. I need to go.”

“You’re welcome to stay,” he says, but we both know that’s a lie. I give him a look, and he grimaces. “Well—at least let me escort you to Clarence House. Mother has plenty of room, and…”

He falters again at the expression on my face, and it takes all the effort I have left in me to be polite. “Thank you,” I manage, “but I don’t need your help. I’m going to the hospital to see my mom and Alexander.”

“And after?” he says. “Perhaps I can ask the staff to ready Nottingham Cottage, or a room at Buckingham Palace, or any of the other properties nearby—”

“I’ll figure something out,” I say. “I just—I need to go.”

Nicholas looks oddly crestfallen, but he nods. “There’s a car waiting for you outside,” he says. “It’ll take you anywhere you want to go. And if there’s anything you need…”

“Thanks,” I say again, barely able to force myself to speak. But while he, at least, doesn’t seem to believe I started the fire, there’s no doubt in my mind that he’ll follow Helene’s lead, no matter where it might take him.

The cobblestones are icy against my bare feet as I step into the courtyard, and sure enough, there’s a Range Rover idling several yards from the door. I’m halfway there when a sharp pebble digs into my heel, and I wince, pausing long enough to rub my foot against my other leg to dislodge the tiny rock.

In those few seconds, Singh appears in front of me, his hands in his pockets and his breath visible in the freezing morning air. I try to step around him, but he moves with me, blocking my way again.

“I don’t want to hear it,” I say sharply. “I didn’t set the fire. I was in my room the entire night, and I had nothing to do with—”

“I never suspected you,” says Singh in an infuriatingly neutral tone that doesn’t give anything away, but it’s enough to steal my indignation right out from under me.

“Do you know who did it, then?” I say warily.

“Haven’t a clue,” he admits, “but I am certain it wasn’t you—or as certain as I can be, given the circumstances. Someone seems desperate to make everyone believe it was you, though, don’t they? And that, to me, is exceptionally curious, especially considering everything else that’s happened lately. Once again, this is all so very, very neat—and so very, very sloppy at the same time.”

I frown. “You think the ABR might’ve been behind this, too?”

“They haven’t taken credit, but the day is young,” he says. “Though I sincerely hope they haven’t breached the palace. If they have…”

I shiver again, and not because of the cold. “I just know it wasn’t me or my mom.”

“And as I said, Miss Bright, I believe you. In fact…” Singh reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and produces a phone. “This belongs to you.”

I take it gingerly, like this, too, might explode in my face. “You’re giving me back my phone?”

“And your laptop, though I’m afraid I haven’t got that in my pocket,” he says with a hint of humor I’m too miserable to appreciate. “They were clean, as you undoubtedly know, other than a stray number under Aoife Marsh’s name.”

“It wasn’t hers?” I say, confused.

“Not unless she’s the owner of a Pizza Express in Derby,” he says, and while this time I should be surprised, I’m not. Of course Kit didn’t give me her real number, and I’m suddenly glad I never used it.

“What about Kit’s phone?” I say as I press the power button. “Was it…?”