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But before she can explain, Kit leaps to his feet, dislodging Rosie and forcing her to sit up. “Wait—wait,” he says, like he’s also having trouble fully grasping the concept. “You think Evan tried to kill Maisie because…?”
“Because if her parents marry, she’ll be legitimate, and then she’ll get to be queen,” says Rosie, though she doesn’t sound as sure of herself now. “That’s what the law says, doesn’t it?”
Kit shakes his head, and he begins to pace. “No—no, that’s not true. Even if she’s legitimized, she won’t be placed in the line of succession. She can’t be, not without an act of Parliament.”
“But her heirs would be,” says Rosie, yet again triumphant at knowing something he doesn’t. “So if Maisie’s dead, even if Evan can’t be queen, her oldest child would still become the monarch.”
Finally everything she’s saying hits me, and something inside me—something I can’t name—caves in on itself, suffocating me in the process. “Maisie, is that—”
She’s already standing, though, and she flings her headphones aside as she hurries toward the stairs. Reeling, I race after her, and even though Maisie is wheezing so loudly that it’s a miracle she can make it up the steps at all, she’s still somehow faster than I am.
“Maisie—” I hiss, but it’s too late. She marches straight through the kitchen and into the sitting room, stopping in the dead center of the archway.
“I didn’t realize you were such a scholar when it came to succession law,” says Maisie, her tone deceptively mild despite her heavy breathing, and Rosie’s jaw practically drops to the floor.
“Maisie! Are you—” She scrambles off the love seat, but Kit loops his arm around hers.
“I think it’d be best if you stayed here with me for now,” he says, and confusion flickers across Rosie’s face—until she glances at the archway again and finally sees me lingering behind my sister.
I’ve never seen anyone lose their color so quickly, and for a split second, I’m positive she’s about to faint. But somehow she manages to stay on her feet, and though she sways, Kit is there to steady her.
“Evan—you’re here.” She chokes out my name like it hurts, but I’m too stunned to feel any sense of satisfaction. “And—and Maisie—you’re okay? Kit said—”
“How kind of you to be so concerned,” says Maisie, her voice sweet venom now. “If Evan was the one to set the fire because she wanted the throne to herself, then explain to me why she started it in Daddy’s bedroom, not mine.”
“I—” Rosie gapes at her, but this time, she doesn’t look the least bit surprised. “I don’t know.”
“And why would she be so careless as to keep evidence of her crime hidden in her own sitting room?” says Maisie. “She may be American, but even she has the brains to think that one through.”
“Really, Maisie?” I say, but there’s no bite behind it. I don’t have it in me. I don’t have anything in me right now except bewildered disbelief and a healthy dose of panic.
“I—I don’t know,” says Rosie again. “Maybe…maybe the other doors were locked.”
“Maybe the hundreds of other doors in Windsor Castle were locked,” repeats Maisie, as if this is a legitimate possibility. “I see.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” cries Rosie. “Maisie, please—”
“You can’t explain why you think Evan’s the main suspect in a fire that could’ve—should’ve—killed her mother, yet you can paraphrase obscure and nearly obsolete legislation from sixty-five years ago,” says Maisie calmly. “How curious.”
Instantly Rosie shuts her mouth, and she yanks her elbow from Kit’s grip. He lets her go, and she stumbles backward toward the mantel, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Maisie, I don’t—whatever’s going on—”
“That’s precisely what I’m trying to discover,” says Maisie. “Because you’re one of my best friends, and because I know none of this could’ve possibly been your idea, I’ll give you one chance to explain, Rosie. Tell me everything—and I do mean everything—and we won’t involve the police.”
Rosie stares at her, so pale now that her lips are bloodless. I expect her to object again, to insist this is all some kind of misunderstanding, but instead, her chin quivers, and she bursts into tears.
“It was him,” she sobs. “All of it—it was all him. He wanted me to start the fire, and he told me how—he threatened me—but as soon as I saw Evan’s mum there, I refused, and he threatened me again, but—”
She’s crying so hard now that the rest of her words are lost on me, but neither Kit nor Maisie moves to comfort her. Instead, with her legs shaking like a newborn fawn’s, Rosie teeters toward the nearest armchair and collapses.
“Who?” demands Maisie, but Rosie ignores the question as she weeps into her hands.
“I didn’t hurt anyone. I didn’t start the fire—I didn’t, I swear. It was just supposed to be gossip. Tidbits. You know, things that—things that didn’t matter. But then he kept asking for more, and more, and more, and—” She hiccups. “Then he wanted pictures and information and secrets, and I tried to refuse, but his threats got worse, and I couldn’t tell him no, Maisie. I tried, but—”
“Who?” demands my sister.
“No one was supposed to get hurt,” says Rosie. “He swore—he swore—”
“Rosie, if you don’t say his name this instant, I will come over there and rip your curls out one by one,” snarls Maisie, and Rosie gives her such a desperate look that for a moment, I almost feel sorry for her.
