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This is believed to be Bright’s first visit to England since news of her affair with the King broke last summer. Traditionally, only members of the royal family are issued invitations toSandringham, though exceptions have been made for both betrothed and former partners, including Venetia, Duchess of York, who divorced the Duke of York in 2006 but continues to join the royals for Christmas each year.
There has been no word as to whether either Bright will make an appearance on the walk to St Mary Magdalene Church, which the royal family famously attends for a service on Christmas morning.
—The Daily Sun, 23 December 2023
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, WHEN WE’VE miraculously made it through lunch without any bloodshed, my mother goes upstairs to take a nap, and Kit and I head into the village near Sandringham.
The protesters are gone now, either of their own volition or because security chased them away, but I’m still a ball of anxious energy as our driver navigates the narrow lanes that lead into town. All I can think about is the poison Constance could whisper in my mother’s ear over the next week, and while I know my mom isn’t fragile, if Constance finds the right combination of words, it could cause the kind of wound that’ll never fully heal—which I’m sure is exactly her intention.
“It’ll be all right,” says Kit as the Range Rover winds through a village full of houses and businesses all built from the same red brick. “Your mother can hold her own, and Alexander will intervene if Constance tries anything else.”
I want to believe him, but he’s never seen my mom when her illness is winning, when her mind is playing tricks on her and she can’t tell what’s real. “I wish Constance would crawl back to her Scottish castle and let the rest of us enjoy the holiday,” I mutter. “It’d be the greatest Christmas gift I’ve ever gotten.”
Kit squeezes my fingers. “We’ll just have to find a way to make the best of it.”
Our eyes meet, and there’s a hint of something in his gaze—something dark that adds gravity to his words, an unexpected solemness that feels too heavy for the circumstances. I shift in my seat to face him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Positive,” he says, but that darkness flickers again, even as he manages a faint smile. “It was a difficult term, that’s all.”
I’m not surprised. Kit’s one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met, but Oxford isn’t exactly a walk in the park for anyone. “We’ll take it easy this week,” I promise. “Though I bet the Maldives is looking pretty good right now, compared to all this drama.”
“On the contrary,” he says, bringing our joined hands to his lips and kissing my knuckles. “There’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be. Or anyone else I’d rather be with.”
As I rest my head on his shoulder, our driver parks in front of a shop on a quiet corner, which is only distinguishable from the rest of the town thanks to a faded pink sign that reads Noble Norfolk Novelties. While I can’t tell what the shop sells, Kit seems to perk up when we climb out of the car.
“I think you’ll like this place,” he says as he pushes open the door, and a bell tinkles above us.
This place, as it turns out, is a strange hybrid of a bookstore, a gift shop, and an old-fashioned ice cream parlor. It’s warm inside and smells like Christmas, and as I pause at the entrance, taking it all in, a woman with rosy cheeks bustles out from one of the aisles.
“Welcome,” she says cheerfully. “How may I help you?”
“We’re looking for a last-minute gift,” says Kit as I examine a collection of jewelry beside the antique cash register. Some pieces are made of polished stones, while others show off flowers captured in resin or hand-painted earrings in the shape of tiny crowns.
“Anything in particular?” says the woman, but she must catch me eyeing the jewelry, because she adds, “All handmade by my daughter. Only fifteen and already so talented. Do you see anything you like, love?”
“It’s all beautiful,” I say, and as I glance up at her, recognition dawns on her round face. I smile politely, bracing myself for whatever’s about to come, but other than her brief surprise, the only change to her expression is a faint hint of pity.
I touch a ring made of tiny pink stones fashioned into a miniature rose, and something subtle shifts inside me. She doesn’t see me—she doesn’t see a customer coming into her shop to buy a gift for an unexpected relative. She sees Evangeline, the King’s illegitimate daughter, who has excellent posture and is always polite, who would never wear ripped leggings in public, and who everyone knows was sexually assaulted and accused of murder. Maybe in a decade or two, I’ll have done enough for one of the worst moments of my life not to be the first thing everyone thinks of when I’m mentioned, but for now, I might as well have a neon sign above my head that screams victim.
“Is the ice cream parlor open?” says Kit as I pretend to focus on a pair of resin earrings.
“It is,” says the woman, her voice an octave higher than before. “You must try our seasonal selections—they’re like Christmas for your taste buds.”
Mercifully the woman follows Kit to the other side of the shop, where the ice cream freezer is displayed beneath a chalkboard sign listing all the flavors, and I take the opportunity to duck into the crammed aisles. I’m not alone—a dark-haired personal protection officer trails after me with all the discretion of a lumbering grizzly bear—but I have a moment to realign myself and to become Evan again. On my first full day in England, during those precious few hours when I was still anonymous, Tibby warned me that if my identity was leaked, my life would never be the same. That I’d be stalked and hounded everywhere I went, and no matter what I accomplished, it would always be overshadowed by the accident of my birth.
She was mostly right, and despite her warning, I wasn’t prepared for the level of scrutiny I’ve faced since. I’m still not, and even in this new place, far from Windsor and the crowds of London, I’m painfully aware that the world won’t hesitate to turn on me if I even think about stepping out of line.
As I reach the back of the store, I turn the corner and stop suddenly. Two feet in front of me, on a rickety display that looks like it’s balancing on willpower alone, are a dozen copies of Henrietta Smythe’s new biography—complete with a black-and-white picture of my face on the cover. My cheeks grow hot as I glance around, and only once I’m sure this part of the shop is empty, I gingerly pick up the top copy and read the back.
The true story of Evangeline Bright, the secret American princess who’s destined to take the royal world by storm.
“It’s not a bad photo of you,” says Kit softly behind me, and I jump. “Though I’m afraid that’s the only good thing I can say about the book.”
I wrinkle my nose and set it back down. “I can’t believe you read it. Were you really that bored at your parents’ place?”
He shrugs. “Maisie always asks me to read the unofficial biographies—she likes to know what they say, if only to prove them wrong. I assume that’s a trait you two share. Chocolate candy cane with eggnog and evergreen swirl,” he adds, offering me one of the cones in his hand.
I take it curiously and allow myself a cautious lick. To my surprise, the shopkeeper isn’t wrong. It does taste like Christmas. “Weird,” I mumble.
