Page 33 of The Royal Art of Revenge

“That’s a shame.” She sighs again and rests her chin in her hand, fixing her gaze on me. “You know, you remind me a great deal of someone I once knew. She’s not with us anymore, and you resemble her a lot. Perhaps that’s why I wanted to meet you so badly.”

She knows.

She recognises me.

Shit. I have to be so, so careful. If I outright give her the answer she’s searching for and it gets back to my family, I’m in so much trouble.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say softly. “I’m sure it’s a coincidence that we look alike.”

“Hmm, maybe.” She looks at me as if she can see right through me, right through every word I’m saying. “We were best friends from childhood. And, oh, I loved Francesca like my own sister.”

Francesca.

Mum.

My heart. It’s pounding. The most obnoxious thwump-thwump-thwump that echoes in my ears.

“We grew up together. I’m not sure I could have gotten through the dramas of being the crown princess and then queen in the early days if I didn’t have her steady heart by my side.” She smiles wistfully, ignoring her son’s questioning look at her. “She was by my side when I got married and when Finn was born. And I, hers, when she married and gave birth to her—oh, listen to me, droning on about an old friend.” She laughs lightly, sitting up. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear this.”

“No.” I offer her a small smile, ignoring the clenching in my heart. It’s been so long since I heard someone speak of my mother as if she were a blessing and not a burden. “Everyone has a story, and it’s one of my favourite things about being a photographer. If I were to take your photo right now, Your Majesty, I think it would tell a tale of how much you loved your friend.”

“Hm.” Her eyes shine with a gentle warmth. “You’re probably right. She had a daughter, you know. One who looked remarkably like her. Sadly, she went missing when she was, oh, how old was Harriet when she disappeared, Rowan?”

“I believe she was around eight, Your Majesty,” he answers.

“Seven,” Crown Prince Finley says, staring across the table at nothing. “She was seven.”

I glance at him but quickly turn my attention back to the Queen. How does he remember that?

“Yes, of course. Silly me.” The Queen sighs. “Before that, each time I looked at her, I could swear she was Francesca as a child. It was rather unnerving at times. And… I guess I felt a similar way when I saw your photo and simply had to meet you in person.”

I say nothing.

What can I say?

I can’t confirm it.

But I can’t deny it, either.

“Franny was heartbroken when her daughter went missing. We mobilised everyone we could, did everything in our power, even perhaps overstepped at times in our efforts to find her, but she disappeared without a trace. It was as if she’d fallen off the face of the Earth itself.” The Queen’s gaze never wavers from me. “She never stopped hoping she’d come home. Even when we were presented with a body that we were told was hers, she refused to believe it.”

What? They faked my death?

“Still, she never recovered from her broken heart, and I truly believe it killed her. When she died, I swore to her I would never stop looking for her daughter—or hoping that she would come home.”

There’s a lump in my throat.

A big, fat, stupid lump that makes my eyes want to sting.

All this time…

All this time, someone was waiting for me.

The Queen smiles, and the familiar pain of loss momentarily flashes in her gaze. “Of course, that would be nothing short of a miracle. Don’t you think, Harriet?”

Crown Prince Finley looks between us, bewilderment widening his eyes. “What—”

“My name is Hannah, Your Majesty,” I lie softly.