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“Miss Bright?” says Tibby, who lingers nearby with an armful of bouquets. I force another smile, afraid of what will happen if I open my mouth, and though she eyes me warily, she doesn’t press. Maybe because there are a dozen cameras pointed our way, and a hundred more phones documenting our every move. Or maybe, unlikely as it is, I look more convincing than I think I do. Either way, for the first time that day, I desperately want her to take my arm and march me out of there, appearances be damned. But despite her many talents, even Tibby hasn’t yet learned how to read my mind.
We’re only ten feet from the SUV when I notice a flash of color in the crowd—a vivid teal. At first I think it must be someone’s hat or sweater, but as I pose half-heartedly for a selfie I know Tibby will berate me for, I see it again. And this time, when I look up, he’s there—the protester who stood outside the Sandringham gate.
I recognize him instantly. His face is once again covered in a teal scarf, and he has a beanie pulled down over his ears, leaving only his deep-set eyes exposed as he stares at me with the intensity of a predator who’s found his prey. Though he’s several rows back from the barrier, he elbows his way closer with each passing second, ignoring the protests of those he shoves out of his way.
Despite the frigid January weather, a drop of sweat trickles down my spine. The crowd is seething now, crushed against each other, fighting for enough space to breathe. Hands reach for me, touching my coat and gloves, but my heels are rooted to the pavement, and I can’t take my eyes off the man with the scarf.
When he’s less than three feet away—so close now that I can make out the ring of gold around his pupils—the sun breaks free of the heavy clouds. And as he pushes aside a woman filming me with her phone, I catch the glint of something metal in his hand, and unadulterated terror strikes me like lightning.
“Gun!” I cry as panic erases everything in my mind except the singular need to escape. A chorus of screams pierce the air as I spin away from the crowd, my vision blurred and my breath caught in my throat, but I don’t look back.
The car—I have to get to the car.
As I stumble forward on my teetering stilettos, however, an earsplitting crack reverberates off the building, and I lose my footing completely. Cries of surprise and pain echo behind me, and I hit the ground hard, my injured shoulder taking the brunt of it.
Agony cuts through me, and for a split second, I think I’ve been shot again. I gasp, the edges of my vision going black, but when I glance down at the front of my coatdress, there’s no sign of a bullet wound—only some slush from the sidewalk.
“Evan!”
My sister’s scream rises above the commotion, and when I look up, the pathway between me and the hospital entrance has disappeared. Instead, the crowd surges past an overturned barrier, propelled by the crush of bodies behind them as they flood the empty space.
“Maisie!” I shout as I scramble to my feet, pain momentarily forgotten. I’ve lost sight of the man with the teal scarf, and the thought of him getting anywhere near my sister chills me to the bone. “Maisie!”
But before I can dive recklessly into the throng, a pair of arms wrap around me, and Ingrid drags me away from the tangle of human bodies. I fight to break free, but she’s incredibly strong, and before I know what’s happening, Ingrid shoves me unceremoniously into the back seat of the Range Rover.
I tumble over the soft leather, dazed and panicked and desperate to find Maisie. But by the time I right myself, ready to dash back into the melee, another protection officer bursts through the edge of the crowd—and he’s holding my sister in his arms.
“Evan!” she sobs as he lifts her into the car. She’s chillingly pale, and a button hangs loose from her lavender coat, but to my relief, she looks mostly unscathed. Ignoring my throbbing shoulder, I throw my good arm around her and hold her tight, and she clings to me like I’m the only thing in the world that can keep her from sinking into oblivion.
“They attacked me,” she babbles, her voice too high and tight. “Evan—did you see? The crowd, they came out of nowhere, and—and they were everywhere—”
“I saw,” I say, swallowing my own hot fear. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Tibby and Fitz hastily climb into the vehicle behind ours. “Are you okay? I heard a gunshot, and—”
“Gunshot?” Her wide eyes brim with tears. “Someone had a gun?”
“In the crowd,” I say shakily. “The man pushing his way up to me—he had a teal scarf—”
“He wasn’t holding a gun, Miss Bright.” Ingrid climbs into the passenger seat and pulls her door shut, cutting out the worst of the crowd. “It was a mobile with a metallic case.”
“A—what?” I say, stunned. I glance out the window, part of me expecting to see him staring me down like he did outside Sandringham, but a line of police officers stand between us and the crowd now, blocking my view. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” she says, and despite her gruff demeanor, there’s a hint of softness in her voice, too. “I had eyes on him the whole time, Miss Bright, I assure you.”
“But—the gunshot—” I say as Maisie finally lets me go and digs a tissue out of her purse.
“The sound you heard was the barrier breaking from a surge in the crowd,” says Ingrid. “You were never in any danger, Miss Bright.”
As I stare at the back of her head, speechless and reeling, Maisie dabs her eyes. “But they attacked me,” she insists. “They ran straight for me and knocked me down, and—and I understand them hating Evan, of course, but I’m their future queen. They love me. They love me.”
Despite her barb, I take her trembling hand in mine as we pull away from the chaotic scene. And though my shoulder continues to protest every tiny move I make, I look out the window once more at the countless faces that watch us go. But I’m only searching for one.
Finally, just as we turn a corner, I see him—the man in the teal scarf. Despite the Range Rover’s tinted windows, he’s staring straight at us, and in that moment, I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that this won’t be the last time we meet.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Kit
Maisie, I’ve just seen the news—are you all right? Evan isn’t answering my texts.
