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He lets this hang in the air like it’s an invitation, but I know better than to give him that kind of opening. And no one else, not even my viciously smug sister, takes it. After a beat, his smirk returns, and he smooths the front of his jacket.
“I’ll see you all rather soon, I suspect,” he says, as if he’s the victor in this battle. And maybe, in his own mind, he is. “Father. Grandmother. Aunt Helene. Good luck.”
He slides past Maisie without a second glance, but Jenkins, I notice, has to step aside to avoid being directly in his path. And when Ben reaches the door, he pauses as he peers down at me, and the air between us is so charged that a single spark could set it on fire.
“Rest assured, Evangeline, that this is only the beginning,” he says with eerie calm. And just when I think he’s about to keep going, he leans down so close that his lips brush against my ear. “It was meant to be you.”
I suck in a breath, stunned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I say raggedly, but as he tilts his head, the picture of innocence, I already know the answer.
I was the one who was supposed to die under a mountain of rubble. Not Alexander, not Ingrid, not the seven other victims—that bomb was meant for me.
Kit steps forward, danger radiating from him. “I believe Her Royal Highness has made it clear that you are no longer welcome here,” he says with inhuman calm, and Ben chuckles.
“My condolences on your most recent failure, Lord Clarence,” he says. “Perhaps you’ll finally get the job done next time.”
And with an enormous wink at Kit, he finally passes through the doorway, waving aside the officers as he strides down the hall and out of sight.
The room is deadly silent. Rattled, I try to catch Kit’s eye, but his gaze is focused on the empty doorway, and his lips are parted, almost like he’s seen a ghost.
“What is he talking about?” I whisper, but Kit shakes his head and slides a protective arm around my shoulders.
“You should sit,” he says, and before I can protest, he leads me around the table to the now-empty chair beside Nicholas. I hesitate, ready to insist that I’m perfectly fine standing, but once again, all eyes are on me. And so I ease down into the chair, my skin crawling when I discover the leather is still warm.
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want anything to do with Parliament or politics or a maybe-regency for my critically injured father, but even though no one’s said it out loud, it’s clear now that I’m the only thing standing between Ben and a position on this royal council. And while his whispered words and their terrible implication still slither through my mind, I can’t discount the likelihood that they’re designed to do exactly this—to shake me so badly that I race out of there and never come back, leaving his seat vacant once more.
And so, knowing I need to tell someone but also painfully aware that now is not the time, I shove my trembling hands between my knees and make myself as small as possible. Kit remains behind me, and I take all the comfort I can from his presence, though for once, it isn’t enough.
“Well, then,” says Maisie as she sits at the head of the table—Alexander’s spot. “Shall we get on with it?”
“How is His Majesty?” says Yara immediately, her complexion bloodless. “Is his condition really so poor as to require…this?”
“The King’s injuries are grave,” admits Helene, her gaze fixed on the table in front of her. “And if he does survive, there is a…significant possibility they will have a permanent impact on his quality of life. And, potentially, his ability to rule.”
This is new information to me, although considering I’m one of the only people in that room who’s actually seen Alexander, it shouldn’t be. Shock and devastation flicker across Maisie’s face, and it’s only thanks to what must be a supreme act of willpower that she pulls herself together before she falls to pieces.
“When my father recovers,” she says, as if challenging not only her mother, but the entire universe to prove her wrong, “we will of course dissolve this council. But until then, we will do our solemn duty to protect and uphold His Majesty’s rule.”
I stay silent as Jenkins situates himself in the empty spot beside me and leads the meeting from topic to topic, starting with when to release a delicately worded statement about Alexander’s condition, and then moving on to how to divide his duties between the members of the royal family—which, to my relief, doesn’t seem to include me. Maisie and Helene take the lion’s share, but when the topic of public appearances comes up, Nicholas stands.
“There will be no public appearances until we can be certain that all participants of the attack on His Majesty have been rounded up,” he insists. “We will not put other members of the family at risk.”
“MI5 has already made several arrests in the case, Your Royal Highness,” says a man I recognize as the head of palace security—Victor Stephens. “We’re working closely with the Home Office to ensure the royal family’s safety.”
Nicholas nods. “Good. And when we do start to venture out into the world again, I insist that Princess Mary be accompanied by another senior royal whenever she is in public.”
Maisie stares at our uncle. “Pardon me?” she says, though there’s no politeness in her voice. “With all due respect, our security is the best in the world. I don’t need a minder.”
“You’re in an exceptionally vulnerable position,” says Nicholas, “and you will need support from those of us with the experience to guide you.”
“And I will have it, in private,” says Maisie fiercely. “I suppose you’d prefer to escort me everywhere I go?”
“Yes,” says Nicholas. “After what’s happened to my brother, I very much would.”
She gives him a contemptuous look. “You’re not superhuman, Uncle Nicholas. You’re not going to single-handedly stop a building from falling on me.”
“Likely not,” he agrees, “but my military background gives me insight into the security of public events that the other members of this family do not have.”
“And you don’t think our actual security team might have a problem with you stepping in to play bodyguard?” She shakes her head. “We need to give the people a sense of stability—a sense of continuity and safety and peace, and the last thing they need is a steady stream of images of their princess being followed around like a child who can’t be trusted. I know I’m young, and I know I have a lot to learn, but I will not give the country a reason to doubt me, and I will not offer the media a single bloody excuse to claim I’m incapable of upholding my duties as the future—”
