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“Sorry,” I mumble, my cheeks growing warm. “I think I’m spending too much time around Maisie.”
“Her Royal Highness’s faults are no excuse for yours,” says Tibby tartly, but at last she steps aside, and we continue down the hall toward the state apartments. “The people are watching you, Evan, and they deserve more than another ungrateful brat. Especially when you offer them hope that maybe their lives can become a fairy tale, too.”
I snort. “Being accused of murder and having all my secrets exposed to the entire world counts as a fairy tale now?”
“Haven’t you read the Brothers Grimm?” says Tibby. “Murder is practically a plot requirement. If we want any chance of making it in time, we’ll have to go this way.”
She ushers me into the royal family’s private chapel—sacrilegious, I’m sure, though clearly the only sin Tibby’s worried about is tardiness. She’s moving so quickly now that I’m forced to do a strange skip to keep up, but when we finally reach the threshold of St. George’s Hall, I stop in my tracks—and so does she.
While normally the vast hall is empty, save for the ever-present paintings, marble busts, and suits of armor that line the walls, a table that easily seats two hundred now stretches from one end to the other, covered in massive festive bouquets and more plates and utensils than I’ve ever seen. And because my life,while newly charmed, can never be fair, nearly all of tonight’s guests are already inside as a fleet of footmen show them to their seats.
Tibby swears. “Keep your head up, but move quickly,” she whispers, and this time I don’t complain as we hurry to the nearest exit. Before we make it more than twenty feet, however, a woman at the end of the table gasps.
“Evangeline?” she says, her voice mercifully low. A few of her companions turn to look at me, too, and I smile and press my finger to my lips. Her shock quickly turns to conspiratorial amusement, and even though I’m not a princess—or even an official member of the royal family—she dips in a low curtsy.
A rising murmur follows Tibby and me now, and I do my best to walk properly in my uncooperative shoe, keenly aware of all the eyes on us. It’s only sheer luck that I don’t trip and fall on my face, and when we finally reach the nearest exit, Tibby all but yanks me through the doorway—
And straight into the middle of an explosion of camera flashes.
“Ah, Evangeline,” says a deep voice as the door closes behind us. “I’m pleased you were able to make it.”
His Majesty King Alexander II, monarch of the United Kingdom and Commonwealth, stands fifteen feet away in the opulent Grand Reception Room, his blue eyes fixed directly on me. While his slightly balding head is bare, his tuxedo is heavy with sashes and medals he never actually earned, and even though he’s not especially tall or commanding, everything in the room seems to revolve around him like he’s the only source of gravity.
Beside him stands a square-jawed woman I instantly recognize as President Park. They’re posing for a cluster of photographers and members of the Royal Rota—the group of journalists whose only job is to cover the royal family—and both are still smiling widely even though every single camera is now pointed toward me.
Perfect.
Sorry, I mouth as a deep blush spreads across my face. I should curtsy, or at the very least dip my head in a show of respect. But as Tibby is so quick to lament, I’m not exactly a stickler for the rules, and as long as I have dual citizenship, I refuse to bow to anyone—even my endlessly patient father.
He doesn’t seem to mind, and when he shoots me a wink before turning back to President Park, I know I’m forgiven for my unexpected entrance. By him, at least. Tibby is another story, and as she squeezes my arm in a supposed show of support, I’m sure it’s only to measure how much acid she’ll need to dissolve my body after she murders me for this.
As the photographers reluctantly return their attention to the main attraction, I slip into an empty corner and try to make myself as small as possible. Somehow, in the greatest show of self-restraint I’ve managed since arriving in England, I resist the urge to make sure my tiara hasn’t slipped out of place. Given the number of pins currently digging into my scalp, it’s undoubtedly right where I left it, but Tibby’s earlier quip about headlines and a falling crown haunts me like a premonition I can’t shake.
“And now our families,” announces Alexander, and he gestures toward the other side of the room, where a small crowd is gathered. I spot two bobbing tiaras among the sea of suits and dresses, and finally Queen Helene appears with Princess Mary in tow.
Admittedly it doesn’t take much to make me feel like an impostor most of the time, but one look at them, and I shrink even further into the metaphorical shadows. They’re both stunning—the kind of gorgeous that only money can buy, with flawless porcelain skin, shiny hair, and blindingly white smiles. My statuesque stepmother is in a flowing ivory gown with her blond hair wrapped around the base of her glittering headpiece, and it’s obvious why she’s been declared the most beautiful woman in the world by multiple magazines. Everyone in the room is watching her—everyone except my father.
Maisie, my equally elegant half sister, wears a sapphire dress covered in crystals, but nothing outshines the intricate tiara perched above her strawberry-blond waves. There’s something slightly off about her expression, though—something cold and a little stiff, but not so much that she’s dragging down the mood. It could be anything, from the indignity of being in a color she doesn’t love to an actual problem she has to ignore for a few hours in order to transform into Her Royal Highness Princess Mary, heir to the throne and the future Queen of the United Kingdom, and I make a mental note to ask if she’s okay.
As they make their way across the room, they’re accompanied by a clean-shaven man I recognize as President Park’s husband and a teenage boy I can’t place as easily. But there’s no question who he is, not when he has the president’s square jaw and her husband’s lithe build.
When his mother was elected three years ago, Thaddeus Park was quiet, awkward, and best known for his love of Star Wars. Now, at eighteen, he has most definitely grown into that jaw. And those cheekbones. And those shoulders. I give myself five seconds to stare before I tear my eyes away, reminding myself that I have my own quiet and adorably awkward boyfriend who, less than thirty minutes ago, sent Tibby a text wishing me luck tonight, followed by a single x—which, apparently, he only ever uses with me.
Tibby lets out a low whistle as she also admires the view, and I elbow her in the side. “He’s my age,” I hiss. “Cougar.”
“How old do you think I am?” says Tibby, aghast, and I shrug.
“Old enough to be my babysitter.”
“I am not your babysitter,” she says with familiar exasperation. “I am your private sec—”
“Miss Bright.”
An older man with a short salt-and-pepper beard steps out of the crowd, and though he stands stiffly and with an air of formality, there’s a twinkle of amusement in his eye.
“Mr. Jenkins,” I say, biting back a grin. Even though I’ve known Jenkins longer than I’ve known almost anyone, I’ve never seen him in a tux before, and he also has an impressive set of medals—including the star worn by Knight Commanders of the Royal Victorian Order. I’ll never catch up to what people like Tibby and my half sister have known practically from birth, but I feel some small sense of victory for recognizing this much. “I’m sorry we’re late. It’s not Tibby’s fault—”
“Never mind that,” he says with his usual gentle understanding. “His Majesty has requested that you join him and the Park family for these photographs.”
