Page 35 of The Royal Art of Revenge

An answer by omission is still an answer, if you want it to be.

By not saying a word when she’s right, I’m telling her everything while saying absolutely nothing.

And when the time comes—if it comes—I can look my father in the eye and say that I never told anyone my name.

“Would you be open to humouring a desperate old lady who’s been hoping to find her late best friend’s daughter for twenty years? Would you answer my questions, Hannah?” Her eyes twinkle with a playfulness that contradicts her words, and I can’t help but smile a little.

“Of course, Your Majesty. After all, you’re the Queen. I’ll answer whatever you ask of me, as long as I’m able.”

Crown Prince Finley looks at me. His gaze is practically boring a hole into the side of my head, but all I can do is look at the Queen and beat down every ounce of adrenaline pumping through my body right now.

It’s much harder than it seems.

Am I vibrating? I feel like I’m vibrating.

“Let’s start with some easy ones. You’re a photographer, correct?” Her Majesty asks.

I say nothing.

“Good. Um… The drink you were served earlier is apple juice.”

“No, I was served a green tea.”

“Oh, delicious.” She smiles. “It’s a sunny day today.”

Silence.

It’s a gorgeous, sunny day.

“You have brown hair.”

“No. I have blonde hair,” I reply.

“Excellent. I think that’s clear.” She tilts her head to the side. “Did you go overseas by choice when you were a child?”

I swallow. “No.”

“Mhmm.” She nods once. “Finley told me you returned here about two years ago. Is that true?”

Silence.

“You mentioned staying with a family member. Is that member your father?”

Again, I say nothing.

“Your mother still alive, correct?”

I look down once more. “No,” I say quietly.

“Was your mother’s name Francesca Sinclair?”

I close my eyes, dipping my chin as if the slight angle will hide my pain. My nose is burning, and if I open my eyes again, I will cry.

Cry from acknowledgement. That someone remembers her. That someone loves her. That someone cares enough to say her name with kindness instead of cruelty.

“Is your legal name Harriet Sinclair?” she asks, and her voice cracks on my real name.

I do nothing.