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Breakfast. Maisie’s Instagram picture. The museum opening. I can’t do any of it like this—not when I feel like I’m about to jump out of my skin. “The whispers were saying I’m going to die today.”
“You’re not going to die today,” he murmurs, tucking my tangled hair behind my ear. “You’re not going to die for a very, very long time.”
I blink hard. “What if my mom and Alexander are right?” I mumble. “What if I really am losing my mind?”
“We’ll figure out what’s going on when we get to Virginia, okay?” he says, but I shake my head.
“You need to go back to Oxford.”
“What I need right now has nothing to do with university,” he says. “But we’ll talk about it later, all right? For now, let’s get you tucked into bed.”
He leaves a note for Tibby on the dining table, and once we’re back in my bedroom, he chooses an ocean soundscape on YouTube and plays it just loud enough to drown out any other noise—real or imagined. It reminds me of the nightmares I used to have when I was a kid, the ones where no matter what I did, I always ended up drowning. But this time, as he holds me and I slip into that same dream, he’s on the shore with my mother and grandma, ready to show me the way back.
By the time he wakes me, a streak of sunlight sneaks in through a crack in the curtains, and it’s nearly nine o’clock. Tibby is waiting in the sitting room, and though she’s done an exceptional job of keeping to herself, as soon as she knows I’m up, she’s back to ordering me around like I haven’t been getting myself ready in the morning for practically my entire life.
I don’t know what, if anything, Kit told her, and I don’t ask as I brush my teeth and get dressed. A stylist is waiting for me in my sitting room, and thirty minutes later, my hair is dried and pulled into an artful half ponytail, my makeup is done, and Kit and I walk hand in hand to the breakfast room, where Alexander, Maisie, and my mother are all waiting for us.
I force a smile as Tibby takes picture after picture, some with all of us, some with just me and Maisie and our father. Even when we start to eat, I notice her sneaking a few shots when she thinks no one is looking. And although I’m calmer now, as I look around at my family gathered together, I can’t shake the feeling that this is somehow a morning I’m always going to remember. Or that maybe those voices were right, and this is the last happy memory I’ll ever have.
Our regular Range Rover is replaced with a Rolls-Royce bearing the royal standard, bulletproof windows, and an emergency airlock that, in case of a gas attack, will keep us safe. Security has more than doubled, with Ingrid accompanied by three other protection officers specifically there to keep an eye on me and Kit, and no fewer than six to protect Alexander.
Kit holds my hand the entire way, and he and my father chat about the museum we’re about to visit—a newly renovated building along the Thames that’s been nearly two years in the making. They pretend that nothing’s wrong, that neither of them noticed there were no newspapers waiting for us at the breakfast table this morning, or that I’ve barely said a word. And none of us mentions the protesters lining the sidewalks as we approach the museum, or that the crowd waiting for us behind reinforced barriers is booing.
“Ready?” says Alexander, looking straight at me.
I try to take a steadying breath, but it hitches in my throat, and suddenly I want nothing more than to say no, to tell him we have to drive away and forget this photo op, forget this opening, forget that he has duties and responsibilities. The crowd is tense. The sky is an overbearing gray. And every cell in my body is screaming at me that we shouldn’t be here.
But Alexander won’t leave, even if I beg. And if I don’t go into that museum, Kit will stay behind with me, and my father will be alone. The photographers will have their iconic picture of him walking up the steps surrounded by bodyguards, with no family or loved ones there to offer support, and I have to do this. I have to do this.
“Ready,” I manage, trying to smile away the anxiety coursing through me, replacing my blood with ice and panic. It will be fine. It will be fine. It will be fine.
But as we step out of the car—Alexander first, then me, then Kit—I nearly freeze on the spot. A wall of jeers hits us like an avalanche, and I notice a muscle tightening in Alexander’s jaw as he smiles and waves to the hostile crowd. Our protection officers surround us, not letting us anywhere near the barriers, and I’m enormously grateful as Ingrid joins me on our walk to the front doors. Kit is on my other side, and I clutch his hand, afraid that if I let go, I’ll never find it again.
Among the endless questions and accusations hurled at Alexander, none of which he acknowledges, the sound of my own name catches my attention. The voice is deep and clear, and out of habit—or maybe because I don’t expect to be addressed today—I glance over into the sea of people watching us.
And there, right up against the barrier, is the man with the teal scarf.
He’s not alone—there are three others with him, the lower half of their faces also covered by thick scarves, though I notice a single lock of red hair sticking out from beneath the smallest figure’s hood. They’re all staring at me, and I grip Kit’s hand so tightly that he leans in until his lips are an inch from my ear.
“All right?” he says, barely audible. I shake my head.
“Ingrid,” I manage. “To your right—the man with the teal scarf.”
“I see him,” says Ingrid quietly, and she hangs back for a moment to speak to the protection officers behind us. I feel strangely exposed without her there, and I practically glue myself to Kit’s side as we finally ascend the steps.
The curator, who’s willowy and blond and looks jarringly like Helene, greets us at the arched entrance with a curtsy. After introducing herself, she dives straight into a gushing speech about how grateful she is that we were able to make it, though she doesn’t say a word about the interview or the antagonistic crowd. Alexander is polite and down-to-earth, without any indication that his estranged wife has just aired his dirty laundry to the entire world, and only when the doors close behind us do I release my death grip on Kit’s hand.
“Sorry,” I whisper as he flexes his fingers. “There’s someone out there—he was at the hospital, too.”
“The one you thought had a gun?” he says, and I nod grimly. But our conversation is quickly cut short as the curator introduces her team, and Kit and I both work our way down the line to greet everyone.
The lobby of the museum is an architectural wonder, with soaring arched ceilings and marble columns that seem to shimmer as we move. The curator tells us about the design of the museum—that everything was built with acoustics in mind, and that it could double as a concert hall if need be. Kit and I join Alexander, who looks thoroughly intrigued, and I almost manage to focus—until I see them.
Three vases of blood-red daisies, spaced perfectly apart on the welcome desk.
I take Kit’s hand again and, without letting my own fake smile falter, I meet his questioning gaze and glance at the desk. He freezes in place for a moment, clearly seeing the flowers, too, and we fall out of step with the others.
“Is everything all right?” says the curator, and Alexander pauses.
