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“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Bright,” says Singh, stepping into the room and extending his hand toward me. “Though I wish it were under different circumstances.”
I eye his hand like it might bite me. “MI5. Isn’t that like the CIA?”
“More like your FBI,” he says with the ease of someone who expects me to be difficult. “MI5 is the British security service, while MI6 deals in foreign intelligence. It’s entirely possible they’ll also be assisting with the investigation, but for now, you’re stuck with me.”
My experience with the police hasn’t exactly endeared me to any kind of government authority, but his hand still hovers between us, and reluctantly I take it. His grip is firm, but brief, and as soon as he lets my hand go, I wedge both of mine between my knees.
“Lord Clarence was kind enough to tell me all he remembers about the incident at the Modern Music Museum this morning,” he says smoothly. “And I was hoping you might feel up to the same, particularly if there’s someone you’ve noticed or—”
“Who gave you permission to be in here?”
Before today, I never would’ve thought I’d be relieved to see Constance, but as she steps through the doorway, her face hard as stone, I could actually hug her.
Singh clears his throat. “Your Majesty,” he says, bowing his head. “Forgive me. I’m Agent Suraj Singh, and I’ve been sent by the home secretary—”
“I don’t care who sent you,” says Constance, drawing herself up to her full height. “You’ve no right to be in this room, or to question a member of the royal family.”
My mouth goes dry, though I’m not sure what part surprises me more—Constance being protective of me, or her referring to me as a member of the royal family.
“Ma’am,” says Singh patiently, “we need Miss Bright’s statement—”
“And you’ll have it,” says Constance. “Once Evangeline is out of a hospital gown and in the safety of a royal residence.”
Singh purses his lips, and suddenly, in the face of Constance’s ire, he doesn’t seem nearly as intimidating. “My team is in the process of tracing the terrorists now, ma’am, and time is of the essence—”
“You know who did this?” I cut in, and Singh hesitates.
“We made several arrests at the scene,” he admits. “And an anti-monarchist group that calls itself the Army of the British Republic has taken credit. But situations such as these can be chaotic and confusing, particularly in the initial hours and days, and the more information we have—”
“There is nothing Evangeline can tell you that other witnesses cannot,” says Constance. But as Singh looks at me again, I can see he thinks otherwise.
“You said you saw a man in the crowd—one wearing a teal scarf,” he says. “He seemed suspicious to you?”
I open my mouth, though I’m not entirely sure what’s going to come out. Before I can make a sound, however, Constance steps between us, her arms crossed as she blocks his way.
“One more word, and I’ll be having more than a few with the home secretary over your conduct in the hospital room of a traumatized eighteen-year-old girl,” she says sharply. “Now go, before I have you physically thrown out in front of every single journalist camped outside.”
Singh manages a tight smile. “Very well, ma’am,” he says, and he pulls a card from his pocket, reaching past her to offer it to Kit. “When Miss Bright is ready to speak.”
Kit takes the card, and Singh offers Constance another bow before exiting the room. As soon as he’s gone, Constance shuts the door and begins to pace in her heels, clearly fuming.
“The nerve of that man,” she mutters. “You must never answer any questions without legal representation present, is that understood? No matter how innocent you are, you mustn’t say a word.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “I promise, I know.”
Her frown deepens, but at least this seems to satisfy her for now. “I’ve just spoken to the doctors,” she says, and Kit and I immediately sit up straighter.
“About Alexander?” I say. “Is he—”
“He’s out of surgery,” she says in a clipped voice. “Which was more than he was expected to survive. For now, he’s in a medically induced coma, though the doctors can’t say much more at this stage. If he…” Her voice catches again, and she takes a steadying breath. “If he survives the night, then we’ll have a better idea of what the future might hold.”
If. I swallow hard as Kit’s fingers slip between mine. “Does my mom know how bad it is?” I say, and Constance shoots me a withering look.
“What have I been saying about how important it is that his condition not leak to the press?”
“My mom won’t tell anyone,” I insist. “Helene’s the one who runs to the media every chance she—”
“I’m well aware,” snaps Constance. “But she is still his wife, and she still has the right to make medical decisions for him. Which unfortunately means she is the only other person currently being updated on his condition.”
