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My tiara bumps against the wall, and I wince, finally giving in and digging around for the offending bobby pins. “You’re terrible to me.”
“Indeed. I suppose I’ll just have to make it up to you at Christmas, won’t I?”
I straighten, pins forgotten. “You’re coming to Sandringham? But I thought—”
“My parents decided to holiday in the Maldives,” says Kit. “They offered to fly me out, too, but I can think of few methods of torture more painful than spending another two weeks alone with them. And away from you.”
This makes me melt a little, but considering Kit has barely seen his parents in years, it also comes with a helping of guilt. “Isn’t your mother excited to spend the holidays with you?”
“Maybe. But she and my father have plenty to work through on their own, and I’d only be a hindrance. Besides, we’ve done nothing but partake in awkward conversations and lingering silences since the end of term, and I think we’re all rather weary of tiptoeing around each other at this point,” he admits. “I’ll visit her again in February for her birthday.”
“Okay,” I say, not sure whether to be disappointed for his mother or relieved I’ll get to spend Christmas with him after all. “Maisie keeps talking about how much she hates Sandringham, but it sounds kind of magical, having a tree and family and actually celebrating.”
“It is,” says Kit, and I can tell from the sudden softness in his voice that we’re both thinking the same thing. Ever since my grandmother died when I was eleven, I’ve spent Christmas at various boarding schools, surrounded by a smattering of teachers without families and classmates whose parents couldn’t be bothered to bring them along on whatever glamorous vacation they’d planned. Twice I was the only person left behind, save for the headmistress, and all I remember about those weeks are loneliness and desperately wanting to see my mom.
This year will be different, I promise myself. This year, even though my mother will be in Virginia and I’ll be an ocean away in a secluded English manor, I’ll have Alexander, Maisie, and Kit there to cushion the blow. And I will have a good time.
“When are you supposed to arrive?” I say. “Maisie and I are taking a car there on Saturday—”
“Room for one more?”
I jump, nearly dropping Tibby’s phone as a low voice floats toward me in the darkness. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by light from the drawing room beyond, is Thaddeus Park, holding a plate and two flutes of what I think is champagne.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt, not caring how rude I must sound. “Didn’t security stop you in the vestibule?”
“You mean that room with all the weapons and display cases?” He starts toward me, slow enough not to spill his contraband. “They did, but I seem to have found my way here anyway. This place is a maze, isn’t it? Worse than the White House.”
“You get used to it,” I say, before I hear Kit’s voice—distant and tinny now that I’m holding the phone by my knees. I hastily return it to my ear. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“Is that him?” says Kit. “Are you about to hang up on me for a clandestine rendezvous with your new lover?”
I make a face. “What century are you from?” I mutter, desperately hoping Thaddeus didn’t hear that.
Kit chuckles. “Ring me later, or whenever Tibby’s willing to part with her mobile again. Don’t worry about the photographs, all right? It’ll blow over.”
I’m not so sure, but I say my goodbyes and stretch out my legs, refusing to make any room for Thaddeus on the window seat. He perches on a nearby chair instead, balancing the plate of cookies on a small accent table between us.
“Sorry,” he says, but judging by his grin, he’s really not. “Was that your boyfriend?”
“So you do know he exists,” I say dryly, and despite my annoyance, I take one of the cookies from the stack. I don’t touch the flute beside it, though, and Thaddeus doesn’t seem bothered as he sips from his own. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying the party?”
“You mean the self-congratulatory political networking event masquerading as a fancy ball? I’m good,” he says, popping a cookie into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “It’s not easy, is it? Having to be two people at once.”
I frown mid-bite. “What are you talking about?”
He gives me a knowing look. “When my mom was a senator from Pennsylvania, I could be myself. But as soon as she ran for president, there was suddenly all of this pressure to be…not me. To be presentable at all times. To stop talking about the things that made me interesting. Everything I used to like about myself became too specific, too embarrassing, too controversial—”
“That last Star Wars trilogy really did divide the fandom, didn’t it?” I say, and he chuckles.
“Joking aside, I’ve noticed it with you, too,” he says. “From a distance, I mean. Not in a stalker way, but…it’s hard not to follow your story, with how often you’re in the headlines. And when you joined the royal family, you seemed like this…this beautiful, wild, willfully independent human, and no one could tell you who you were or what to do. And even when everyone accused you of murdering that dickweasel who assaulted you, and the papers broke the news about your mom’s mental illness and what she did to you—”
“We’re not talking about that,” I say coldly, and he immediately holds up his hands in a mea culpa.
“Right—of course,” he says hastily. “I just mean…you seemed indifferent to the noise. You were still you. But as soon as you stepped into the public eye and gave that interview, you became…polished. Predictable. You’ve done what’s expected of you, the same way I have. And I don’t know about you, but I miss the person I used to be.”
This is alarmingly vulnerable, considering we just met, and a knot forms in the pit of my stomach. I don’t feel any different. I still like the same music. I still read the same books. I still watch way too much Netflix in what little free time I have now, and I’ve even started to learn how to play the guitar—badly, admittedly, but it’s still just for me. No one else.
I know exactly what Thaddeus is talking about, though, and I feel a stab of something unexpectedly powerful—wistfulness, maybe, or some kind of nostalgia I didn’t know was there. Because I am two people now. Just as Maisie has to be Princess Mary, the graceful and beloved heir to the throne, I have to be Evangeline, the illegitimate daughter of the King, who’s just grateful to be included. Even though Evan is the person I really am, the person I’ve always been, I can’t be her anymore—at least not where a stranger could see me. And despite his jarring candor and overfamiliarity, Thaddeus Park is still very much a stranger.
