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She fixes her blue eyes on my mother, and a shiver runs down my spine. My mom shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t have to face Helene, who’s the reason everyone in the world knows about her mental illness and the psychotic break that permanently altered our lives when I was four. My mother shouldn’t have to be polite to a woman who’s never shown her an ounce of compassion or empathy, and who sure as shit won’t start now.
But my mom is a better human being than I’ll ever be, and she smiles with warmth Helene doesn’t deserve. “I am well, thank you,” she says. “It’s good to be back in England. Nicholas—you’ve grown up, haven’t you?”
“It happens from time to time,” says my uncle, and though he sounds genuinely friendly, he at least has the decency to look abashed. Good. While Helene was the one to tell the press about my mother’s arrest and mental illness, all the details came straight from Nicholas—including the part about the bathtub.
But either my mom doesn’t know or she doesn’t hold grudges like Alexander and I do, and she flashes him a wide smile. “Alex told me you two are living together now,” she says. “I’m thrilled for you.”
Nicholas smiles self-consciously, and his arm tightens around Helene. “Thank you,” he says. “All on the quiet, of course, but we’re very hap—”
“You’ve brought her here? For Christmas?”
All at once, Constance seems to reanimate from her spot beside the window, and she fixes her livid stare on my father. Feeling like I’ve swallowed a lump of searing-cold metal, I tuck myself underneath my mom’s arm, as if I can somehow shield her from whatever metaphorical daggers my grandmother is about to throw.
“Hello, Mother,” says Alexander. “How lovely to finally see you again. No doubt you remember Laura.”
Remember? I glance at my mom, who looks completely unfazed. In my mind, she and my royal relatives exist in two different worlds, completely separate from each other except for the bridge that is me and Alexander. But now that I’m standing here, face to face with the familiarity and contempt between the members of my unorthodox family, it’s suddenly clear that the Venn diagram I’ve been picturing is much, much closer to a circle.
“Were you not content ruining my last Christmas with my late husband?” says Constance, every inch of her dripping with disdain as she glares at my mother. “Did you come to ruin this one, too?”
“If memory serves,” says Alexander smoothly, “the tantrum you threw about hosting Laura—who, if you’ll recall, was my fiancée at the time—was the reason Father was in a foul mood. He was pleased to welcome her into the family.”
“Until you informed him that you intended on abdicating in order to marry your American harlot,” snaps Constance. “That certainly put a dampener on the festivities, didn’t it?”
“Only for you and Father,” says Alexander, and he turns toward the long buffet set up against the wall. “Laura, you must be starving after your flight.”
He picks up two plates, but Constance clearly isn’t done with this conversation, and she steps closer to the table, her fingers curling around the back of an intricately carved chair.
“Will you and your guest be sharing a room again, then?” she says, her voice tight with barely contained spite. “Never mind that you’re a married man.”
“Helene and I are legally separated, Mother, as you damn well know,” says Alexander with a hint of weariness now. “Must you make this difficult? Laura hasn’t had the opportunity to celebrate Christmas with Evan in a very long time, and—”
“Which reminds me,” interrupts Constance, as if an idea’s just occurred to her. “Perhaps you’d prefer to use one of the other rooms this year, given the…amenities in your en suite.”
Almost everyone in the room freezes at that—even Helene, whose wineglass is halfway to her lips. Only Kit and I glance at each other, both silently asking for an explanation. But I’ve never been here before, and Kit, no doubt, has never had a reason to explore my father’s bathroom.
Oh.
Oh.
Rage washes over me, burning away my confusion until only cold clarity remains. I don’t know exactly what Constance is talking about, but I recognize the shape of her verbal swipe—the insinuation that my mom can’t be trusted anywhere near a bathtub without risking another incident. And just as Kit’s hand touches my elbow, I slide away from him and toward the table, planting myself directly across from Constance.
“Do you remember the first time we met?” I say easily, even though my blood’s boiling. “The day after I arrived at Windsor, before the investiture ceremony. I’m pretty sure I was wearing pajamas.”
Constance simply stares at me, her expression turning to stone.
“You don’t?” I say, keeping my voice casual. “Because I do. I remember every word you said to me. It’s not every day my own grandma calls me a mangy stray at a dog show.”
Behind me, I hear my mom inhale sharply, and Alexander sputters. “Mother?” he says, like Constance would ever confirm it to his face, but I keep going.
“You also said I was a mistake.” I glance at Helene, who was the real wordsmith there. “One that should’ve been corrected in the womb. You’re sure you don’t remember?”
Silence. Kit’s beside me again, solid and warm and no longer trying to stop me, and I feel my mother’s hand on my shoulder, but I don’t know her touch well enough to figure out what she’s trying to say.
“Does anyone know the name of the reporter who wrote that unofficial biography of me?” I ask. “Henrietta something?”
“Henrietta Smythe,” says Alexander, sounding only slightly strained. “She was a member of the Royal Rota for two decades.”
“Right. Henrietta Smythe.” I’m still holding Constance’s clear blue gaze, and neither of us blinks. “Isn’t there a chapter in the book about the day I arrived in England, and the twenty-four hours before my identity became public?”
