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As soon as we return to my sitting room, I request an ice pack from the kitchens, and we spend the rest of the afternoon on my sofa together, lamenting Ingrid’s unyielding toughness and fantasizing about the day I’m strong enough to throw her. Eventually Kit’s phone buzzes, and as he checks it, his head resting in my lap and the warm ice pack discarded on the side table, I reach for my own. To my mild astonishment, I have no messages from Maisie, but there’s a notification about a new post on the Regal Record. And as I read it, I swear under my breath.
“Everything all right?” says Kit, and I shake my head.
“The Regal Record’s reporting that Helene and Nicholas are living together at Kensington Palace,” I say. “How do they know? How could they possibly know?”
“Someone trusted the wrong person,” says Kit simply, and I grumble.
“Maybe Ben’s still feeding the Regal Record information.”
“It’s possible,” he allows. “Though as far as I know, Ben hasn’t been anywhere near Kensington Palace in ages.”
“He’s in Florence with Venetia,” I say, and Kit doesn’t seem surprised I know this. “Nicholas probably told him.”
“Son or not, you’d think he’d know better by now,” says Kit, though his gaze is focused on his own screen again, and we lapse into silence.
As I scroll through the latest posts, a thought occurs to me. “I bet we could figure out who runs the site.”
“The Regal Record?” says Kit, his thumbs typing furiously. “You know all about that computer stuff, don’t you?”
“A little, but not enough to get around any privacy protection.” I pause and glance at him. His frown is deeper now, but it’s directed toward his phone, not me. “What about Aoife?”
Instantly he stills, and his brown eyes meet mine. “What about her?”
“She’s studying computer science, isn’t she? She might have some ideas.”
Kit watches me for the space of several heartbeats, and I can practically see his mind turning this over. “You…want me to ask?” he says slowly, and I shrug.
“It’s probably easier if you give me her number. If that’s all right,” I add, because based on his scowl, it isn’t. But the moment I say this, he seems to realize his face is telling its own story, and it relaxes into a neutral expression.
“Er, yeah,” he allows. “I’ll text it to you. Just…” He hesitates. “She hasn’t been vetted. By the palace, I mean. Whatever you say to her might end up in the papers, so be careful, all right?”
Now it’s my turn to frown. “I thought she was your friend. Your good friend, according to her.”
“More of an acquaintance,” he mumbles. “We wouldn’t know each other if it weren’t for Dylan, and I’m not particularly chummy with him, either. We just go out to the pub together sometimes.”
“Oh.” This is at odds with the conversation they had in the gift shop near Sandringham, and I sift through the memory, trying to decide whether I’m imagining things. I don’t think I am, but I also know the royal family and those connected to it are the evergreen targets of social climbers and sycophants. And Kit, who’s a tabloid staple now because of me, is no exception.
“Just…promise me you won’t trust her, yeah?” says Kit. “Not completely. That’s all I mean.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
I watch as he types into his mobile, and a moment later, mine dings with her number. I add it to my contacts, but instead of messaging her, I set my phone aside and study him. He stares unseeingly at the ceiling now, and though he hasn’t moved from my lap, I can sense a strange distance between us that wasn’t there a minute ago.
“Are you okay?” I say at last. His gaze drifts to me, coming into focus as the faint furrow reappears between his eyebrows.
“Of course. I might be a bit sore in the morning, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“That’s not what I mean,” I say, running my fingers through his waves. “Something’s been off for a while.”
“We did both get shot,” he points out, and I automatically glance at the pinkening scar on his bicep, visible now that he’s wearing a T-shirt.
“You know it’s more than that,” I say quietly. “Something’s going on, and I think it started before the attack. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I add. “But if you do, I’m here to listen.”
A moment passes, and then another, and part of me is sure he won’t say anything. But then he lets out a weighty sigh, and his hand finds mine.
“I’ve been thinking about Liam a lot lately,” he admits as he laces our fingers together. “When I went home over the summer to see my parents, my mother told me she’d kept a box of his things hidden from my father in the attic. I was looking through them, and…” He exhales again. “I don’t know. I was hoping they’d offer answers. About why he did it, about…about who he was as a person toward the end. I didn’t see him much in those last few years,” he adds. “With him at Oxford and me at Eton. I just wanted some insight, I suppose. Some closure.”
“Did you find it?” I say, and he hesitates.
