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Constance and I stare at each other, my mind racing as I try to put my thoughts into words. “So you’re saying—you’re saying my mom has no idea if he’s even alive?”
She purses her lips. “No.”
“What about me?” I say, my heart pounding. “Does she know I’m okay?”
Constance sets her jaw, and I slide off the bed, closing the distance between us.
“Go get her,” I say in a low, dangerous voice. “Wherever she is—go get her, and bring her here.”
Her eyes narrow. “Watch your tone with me, Evangeline. The hospital is on lockdown—”
“I don’t care,” I say. “And you shouldn’t, either. I get why you don’t trust her, but she loves him more than her own life, and we both know he feels the same. You can’t keep her in the dark. Not now, not when…” I shake my head. “He’d want her here. You know he would.”
Constance glances away, the lines in her forehead multiplying. I try to think of what to say next—of what combination of threats and pleas might make her relent—but just as I open my mouth again, she sighs.
“Very well,” she says, so quietly that I almost don’t hear her over the ringing in my ears. “I shall send for her.”
Instantly the tension in my body deflates, and my limbs feel like rubber. “Thank you,” I say, but it’s all I can manage right now. She nods tersely, and as Kit helps me back onto the bed, she goes to the door to speak to one of the officers in the hall.
“Fetch Ms. Bright,” she orders. “She’s downstairs with one of your colleagues. Don’t allow her to speak to anyone, and bring her directly to me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” says the officer, and when Constance reenters the room, I’m gaping at her.
“My mom’s been here the whole time?”
“Of course she has,” she says blisteringly, but there’s no real bite in her voice now. “You’re her daughter. Where else would she be?”
My mother arrives less than five minutes later, and I know instantly from the hollows beneath her eyes and the gray tint to her face that she’s spent the entire afternoon desperately trying to convince herself that Alexander and I aren’t dead. “I’m sorry,” I say as she clings to me. “I thought someone would tell you. I didn’t know—I’m so sorry—”
She shakes her head. “You’re all right,” she manages. “That’s all that matters.”
“Alexander’s alive, too,” I say, ignoring Constance’s glare. “But…he’s in really bad shape, Mom. They don’t know if…”
My mom holds me tighter, and a dry sob escapes her. We stay like that, tangled together in the middle of the room, until my legs start to give out from the effort of supporting our combined weight. And once we’ve separated, me perched on the bed and my mom gripping my hand in both of hers, Constance looks between us, as if coming to some kind of decision.
“How far can you walk?” she says to me, and I glance at my leg. The cut is deep and jagged, and it’s yet another scar to remind me of what’s turning out to be the worst month of my life. But in the face of everything else, it’s barely a blip.
“As far as I need to,” I say, and she nods.
“Put on your dressing gown and follow me—both of you. Kit, stay here. I’ll bring her back soon enough.”
He doesn’t argue, and I tie the sash of a hospital robe around my waist as my mom and I follow Constance into the corridor. The protection officers assigned to my room start to protest, but she silences them with a single look, and I tuck myself underneath my mom’s arm as Constance leads us down the hall.
I don’t know where we’re going until we stop in front of a door guarded by two more protection officers. And as they exchange a grim look, I’m positive I know what’s on the other side.
“You will let us all in,” says Constance, “or you will lose your livelihoods.”
There’s a moment—just a moment—when I see both of them weighing her threat and wondering if she actually possesses the power to have them fired. But she’s the former queen consort, mother of the current sovereign, and grandmother to the heir to the throne. If anyone has the power to do anything in this country, it’s her.
And so they step aside and open the door, and with her head held high, Constance leads us into Alexander’s hospital room.
The first thing I notice is the beeping. It isn’t just a single steady beep-beep-beep, but several layers of tinny noise, all indicating that he’s still alive—or, at the very least, that the machines are keeping him going for now. A nurse sits in the corner beside a computer that displays his vital signs, and another pair of protection officers stand near the door, eyeing us like we might be threats. I ignore them and, mustering up all the courage I have left, finally look at my father.
He lies in an oversized hospital bed, with so many bandages wrapped around his broken body that there’s no real way to tell who he is. The only sign that it’s him is the part of his swollen face not hidden under gauze, and even then, he’s barely recognizable. I freeze, completely unprepared for the sight of him like this, and Constance stands stiffly beside me, also unmoving. But my mother doesn’t hesitate as she walks toward his bedside and takes his bare hand, gently sandwiching it between hers.
“Oh, Alex,” she says softly, her eyes raking over the damage. “My Alex. Look at you.”
There’s something so achingly tender about the way she says his name that tears well in my eyes, but I blink hard, refusing to lose it right now. Not in front of my mom. Instead, I force myself forward and push a plastic chair beside the bed, giving her a place to sit.
