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CHAPTER ONE
We at the Regal Record hope you’ve been good this year, because it seems like Saint Nicholas has come early for us all.
Despite rumours of a cancellation thanks to an untimely blizzard across the pond, the United Kingdom’s notoriously naughty royal family will indeed be hosting a state banquet tonight for the president of the United States, Hope Park, and it promises to be chockful of chaos.
Under ordinary circumstances, this state visit would be noteworthy considering President Park is both the first woman and first Korean American to hold the highest office in the US. But, just like every other significant event as of late, this historic achievement has already been overshadowed by the most recent addition to the House of Windsor’s royal family tree.
That’s right—Evangeline Bright, the King’s illegitimate American daughter, will be in attendance tonight, and given her past exploits, it’s safe to assume she’ll do something gratingly inept to steal the thunder—and the headlines—from those who’ve actually earned their place at the royal table.
In the five and a half months since Evangeline’s tasteless and explosive BBC One interview detailing her own sordid behaviour that led directly to Jasper Cunningham’s death—of which she was cleared of criminal charges, thanks to a reported backroom deal between Scotland Yard and the King’s personal lawyers—the palace has seen fit to shove her down the throats of the British people at seemingly every turn. Hospital openings, charity appearances, even walkabouts typically reserved for legitimate members of the royal family—Evangeline has merrily joined in on all, resulting in a long list of missteps and blunders. Yet despite the efforts of the palace to make her palatable, it’s becoming painfully clear that no amount of media and etiquette training can turn this American frog into a princess.
How much longer can the royal family’s already-tattered reputation withstand the Bright blight? While we wait to see the fallout of tonight’s state banquet and Evangeline’s inevitable indiscretions, we at the Regal Record can only apologise yet again for revealing her identity this summer and unleashing this Pandora’s box of mayhem and vexation on not only the entire country, but the world. One must own up to one’s mistakes, and we deeply regret our part in this royal fiasco.
Let us hope that no one else ends up dead tonight.
—The Regal Record, 18 December 2023
“I’M WELL AWARE THAT BEING on time isn’t a priority for you,” says Tibby, clutching her phone like she’s about to chuck it at my tiara. “But could you at least pretend to care that I’m about to lose my bloody job?”
I’m leaning against the wall in the long gallery of Windsor Castle, trying to keep my head upright as I fiddle with a strap on my stiletto. My gown isn’t making it any easier, and as I set my foot down, the heel snags and comes dangerously close to ripping the shimmering burgundy fabric.
“It’s my shoe,” I mutter, untangling my hem. “One of the straps is loose.”
Tibby arches an eyebrow as I test my weight again. Somehow, despite what has been an obscenely long day full of trivial appointments and last-minute fittings, Lady Tabitha Finch-Parker-Covington-Boyle’s black pixie cut is still perfectly styled, and her tailored gray dress doesn’t have a single piece of lint on it. Unfortunately for both of us, this superpower has yet to rub off on me in the six months she’s been my personal secretary/babysitter, and no one is more aggrieved by my failure to develop a completely new personality than Tibby.
“I don’t care if the heel’s broken off and you’re walking on your tiptoes,” she says. “We cannot be late, Evan.”
“We’re not late.” As I resume my march down the corridor, now with a noticeably uneven gait, I glance through the nearest window and into the dark courtyard beyond. A line of luxury vehicles snakes along the opposite wing of Windsor Castle, and royal footmen hoist umbrellas as tonight’s guests exit their cars and step into the December downpour. “Okay, we’re a little late, but—”
“There is no such thing as a ‘little’ late,” says Tibby. “If His Majesty discovers you’re missing, it’ll be my neck on the block, not yours.”
“He’ll be too busy with the president to notice. Besides, they don’t need me for the pictures, and I’m not escorting anyone inside.”
“An unforgivable oversight,” says Tibby irritably, as if this, too, is somehow my fault. “You’re His Majesty’s daughter, and you’re American. You should be in the procession, preferably on the arm of a member of the president’s family. Your absence will only start another wave of rumors in the press.”
“I start rumors by breathing,” I say. “Besides, it’d be an insult to pair me with anyone important.”
Tibby sniffs. “Illegitimate or not, you’re still of royal blood.”
“Which is the only reason I’m part of this dog and pony show in the first place,” I say. “That and the fact that the universe has a terrible sense of humor.”
By the time we turn the corner and pass the royal family’s private apartments, my scalp is throbbing. I reach up to adjust the Queen Florence tiara that’s secured to my braided updo, but before my fingers can even graze the glittering headpiece, Tibby swats my hand away.
“Don’t you dare,” she says with more vehemence than usual. “Can you imagine the headlines if your tiara falls off in front of the Royal Rota? The metaphor alone—”
“The pins are digging in,” I protest. “I think my scalp might actually be bleeding.”
“Ignore it. The banquet won’t last more than three or four hours.”
“Three or four—” I gape at her. “Haven’t you people ever heard of the Geneva Conventions?”
“You’re royalty, darling,” she says in the dismissive tone she always uses when I complain. “The Geneva Conventions don’t apply.”
I start to object, but before I can utter more than a single syllable, Tibby turns on her heel to face me, and I stumble to a halt.
“I understand you’re uncomfortable, Evan,” she says, her voice low and hurried. “I understand you’d rather not sit around for hours listening to a bunch of politicians make each other feel important. But this is the price you pay for being royal. This is the price you pay for living in a castle with a staff of hundreds to cater to your whims. You have every resource you could ever need, every opportunity you could ever dream of, and you are one of the most famous people in the world. You are privileged in a way damn few others are, and if you tell me one more time how uncomfortable your designer shoes and couture gown and priceless tiara are, I will throttle you.”
For a long moment, we stare at each other in silence. She’s right, of course—every word of it—and I hate that six months ago, I would have throttled myself for acting like this, too.
