Chapter One

 

     All around the newsroom, papers shuffle, printers spit out drafts, and the clack of keyboard keys sits atop the mountain of exhausted, over-worked university graduates who want nothing more than to throw their mobile phones into the Thames and go home and sleep for the night. Or for a week.

     “That’s correct,” Willow Smyth-Jones says into her desk phone as she flaps a hand at her cubicle mate to get him to quiet down. “That is my cell number. I understand. Yes.”

     The call ends, and Willow sets the receiver in its cradle. She pats the pocket of her cardigan and feels her phone there. 

     “Headed out for a coffee,” is all she says to Ethan, who is staring at her strangely from his chair, which faces hers. Their desks are pushed together, nose-to-nose, and they stare at one another all day and all night long—or they have the choice to pretend that the other doesn’t exist, which is what happens most of the time. 

     Willow doesn’t offer to get him a coffee, and she doesn’t break her stride as she hits the door for the stairwell. But rather than going down three flights to the room where some form of coffee is warming or percolating twenty-four hours a day, she walks up two floors, to an empty newsroom where only one distant bank of lights illuminates the space. It feels deserted.

     Her mobile buzzes in her pocket. Willow’s heart thrums as she answers. 

     “Willow Smyth-Jones,” she says, trying not to let her voice make the weird, croaky sound that it sometimes does when she’s anxious. Her younger brother still occasionally calls her “Kermit,” or hums the opening notes to “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog” just to remind her of who she is and where she comes from. 

     “Can you speak freely now?” a female voice asks. It’s the same woman who has just called her desk phone, and Willow would kill for a cigarette to keep her nervous hands busy as she listens, but she never smokes unless she’s at the bar with friends.

     “I can speak.” Willow walks across the quiet floor, through the maze of empty desks, discarded boxes of printer paper, and forgotten desk phones that now sit silent on top of scratched desks. At the windows that look out over the nearly 2,000-year-old city, Willow pauses, one arm folded across her stomach. It’s late—nearly ten o’clock—and the London Bridge is lit up against a navy blue night sky. A bank of clouds hangs over the bridge, alight from the full moon on the horizon. “Who is this?”

     It’s a stupid question, and Willow shuts her eyes briefly after asking. She knows better. 

     “No one,” the woman’s voice says with an amused laugh. “Trust me on that. But I have a story for you, and it’s one I think you’ll want.”

     Willow wants all the stories. At thirty-four, she is no longer the fresh-faced ingenue of the news world, and her hopes of climbing far and fast are now tempered by a more sedate desire: to make enough money to pay for her little bungalow outside the city, to do something exciting with her life, and to somehow leave her mark on the world (since, as her mother so helpfully and frequently points out, she probably won’t be having any children to send forth into the future). But even with her more modest expectations, she still dreams of getting a story—a big one—that causes her words to go viral. She wants to be seen, to be known, to be at the top of her game… she wants to make her parents proud. 

     "I'm listening," Willow says. Her reflection looks back at her in the darkened window, and even under the dim bank of lights on the 6th floor, she can see her face floating in the glass. She looks tired. Her glasses are smudged and slightly out of fashion. Her hair is a solid two days beyond needing to be washed, so she’s wound it into a bun and jabbed it through with a sharpened pencil. The dusty rose-colored cardigan Willow is wearing looks oversized and matronly. But she's eager to find her footing again, to write something sensational, and to wake up in the morning eager to greet the day instead of feeling wary of what it might bring. "Tell me what you have,” she prompts the woman on the phone.

     "This'll be the biggest story you've had in years, love. Maybe ever," the woman promises her. "Are you ready?"

     Willow blows out a long breath that lifts the strand of loose hair that's dangling in front of her face. “I am absolutely ready," she says, her voice croaking again. 

     "Okay." The woman pauses, and on the phone line between them, Willow can feel both of their hearts racing. "I have this on good authority, and I say this with the utmost certainty--you can bet your life on this, miss."

     "Go ahead," Willow croaks breathlessly. She's let the arm that was wrapped around her midsection drop to her side, and her eyes have gone wide in her window reflection, the lights of The London Bridge twinkling in her irises. "I'm listening."

     One more exhale comes across the line before the words that will break the biggest story in the world, and effectively change Willow Smyth-Jones's journalism career forever. 

     "It's about Princess Alexandra, miss," the woman says in a hushed voice. “It’s about the palace.”

* * *

     The grand ballroom is decorated with soft lights and what must be a million flickering candles in hurricane lamps. As she turns in a circle admiring it all, Princess Alexandra feels like she’s stepped inside a snow globe that’s full of glitter. Round tables with immaculate cream-colored tablecloths dot the room, and the centerpieces are all made of ivory roses, hydrangeas, ranunculus, and peonies. Each place setting is delicate ivory china rimmed with gold, and the crystal on every goblet, glass, and dripping chandelier piece gleams like a horde of elves has spent the day polishing them (which is essentially what’s happened, except instead of elves, it was maids who’d done the work). 

     “Happy birthday, Your Highness,” Violet says, approaching Princess Alexandra with a glass of champagne in one French-manicured hand. She glances around the room with a note of jealousy before looking back at her sister-in-law. “Quite the do, isn't it?”

Alex takes in Violet’s dress: slinky, show-stopping, and made for the spotlight, just like Violet. The two women are married to brothers, so they’re not technically related by blood, but because Alex is married to the future King, a note of deference exists between them that Violet always entertains—but never without the tiniest hint of a smirk. 

     “So, how does it feel to be fifty?” Violet turns towards the jazz quartet that’s already performing at one end of the ornate ballroom. The question sounds light, but Alex can feel the barb in it. “Must be a bit jarring.”

     Alex takes a flute of champagne as a waiter stops near her, holding out a silver platter full of bubbling glasses. 

     “Fifty is certainly a horse of a different color,” Alex says amiably, speaking as freely as she will all evening. “I woke up this morning and my shoulder hurt for no reason. I can’t even raise my arm.” She holds her left arm out in front of her, trying to lift it and grimacing in pain instead. “See? You turn fifty and then fall apart immediately.” Alex sips her champagne good-naturedly. “Enjoy your forties while you can.”

     Violet smiles with her glass in front of her lips. “I intend to,” she says throatily, eyes scanning the room. “Are you making a grand entrance?”

     Alex has considered this, but ultimately it does not serve her purpose tonight. In holding her guests captive with drinks in hand as they anticipate her ascension down a long staircase, all she’s really doing is postponing the inevitable portion of her own evening. No, by skipping the grand entrance, she’ll be in the room, already circulating and mingling as people grab their own champagne flutes and nibble the hors d’oeuvres. Her goal is to have everyone properly pissed by the time they sit down for dinner, and absolutely clotted by the time they’re calling for her to come up and cut the cake. Confusion over her whereabouts will set in at that point, and the chaos of a drunken melee will be Alex’s biggest ally this evening.

     “A grand entrance?” Alex asks coyly, looking at her sister-in-law from beneath her lash extensions. “No, that won’t do. I’m turning fifty, not making my debut into society. I want people to come in and see me, to say hello, and to enjoy the evening.”

     “I can’t believe you said no to gifts,” Violet says, shooting her an incredulous look. “I heard that every big designer in Britain wanted to send you their entire fall and winter lines.”

     At this, Alex gives a full-bodied laugh. “Oh, Vi. They send those anyway. No need to wrap it up, stick a bow on it, and call it a birthday gift.” She takes another sip of bubbly, but she really needs to slow down. It won’t do for the birthday girl to be off her face before the guests even arrive. “Besides, people will be watching. The economy is in flux. If they see us throwing a huge birthday bash and me rolling around in the kind of free gifts that they can’t afford to buy with an entire year’s salary, well… the optics aren’t very good, are they?”

     Violet shrugs one bony shoulder. “I suppose.” She’s got her own opinions about the economy, the people, and life in general, but on far too many occasions—usually over a dinner table laden with half-empty wine bottles—Alex and Violet have come to teeth-gritted verbal blows over what most of the royals see as Alex’s overtly down-home, “for the people” attitude. She’s never been one to shy away from shaking hands (without gloves!) with even the most downtrodden person on the streets, and she can never help herself when it comes to children’s charities. None of it is Violet’s cup of tea, and so the women keep their sober conversations to topics like their children, their official duties, or which famous British television stars and singers are currently mucking up their personal lives in the tabloids.

     “You’re too good to be true, Alex,” Violet says, reaching out with her empty flute and handing it to a passing server, then flagging down another for a fresh drink. “You are the sparkling gem in the center of the Crown.” She raises her fresh glass of champagne to Alex. “Our very own diamond.”

      Alex makes a gagging face at this; she and Violet have several running inside jokes, and while it’s necessary for them to always put on a public face when they’re being watched, they can, on occasion, turn into silly girls when they’re together. 

     “Anyhow,” Alex says, smiling as the Prime Minister enters the ballroom with his much-younger wife on one arm. “I should start making the rounds here and listening to all the hilariously unfunny jokes about me turning fifty. Excuse me.”

     The quartet is playing jazzy versions of 80s hits (Alex’s request) as Alex greets each partygoer with a question or some reminder of the last time they’d spoken. She’s particularly good at mentally cataloguing children’s names, places people have traveled to recently, or big life events worth mentioning the next time she sees a person, so she chats easily as she accepts their birthday wishes and congratulations for reaching the half-century milestone. 

     Alex is trying to keep a good sense of humor about the whole birthday thing, but in truth, it’s been hard. Turning fifty has thrown her sense of self into question, and on a deep, spiritual level, Alex knows that this is a crisis of sorts. She hesitates to call it a ‘midlife crisis,’ especially since her son very helpfully reminded her recently that midlife is more like age thirty-five than age fifty, but she’s woken up several times in the middle of a panic attack in the dark of night, and the hot flashes that overtake her at the most inopportune moments have reminded her just how fragile her life and her health are. If there are big and important things that mothers neglect to share with their daughters, then the wild rollercoaster of the years leading up to menopause is definitely one of them. 

     “You are an absolute vision,” Prince Arthur says, leaning in to give Alex an air kiss as he enters the ballroom. As ever, her husband’s presence is commanding; every eye in the room flicks in his direction. This never fails to amuse Alex, who has seen him in every state that a human goes through; it’s safe to say that the mystery is long gone for her, and with it, the awe of being in the presence of a future King. 

     “Thank you,” Alex says, putting her cheek near his. They have been married for thirty years, and in that time, they’ve become masters of deception together, colluding daily to convince the world that they’re still living the fairytale that they’d once actually been close to living. 

     “Is this new?” Prince Arthur asks, eyeing her dress. It is sleeveless and strapless, with a tight bodice and scallops of heavy gem-encrusted fabric falling from waist to floor, much like the scales of a mermaid. The fact that the gems are sapphires and pearls gives the gown an even more oceanic feel, and Alex has completed the look with a sapphire choker and pearl and diamond earrings that match her thin tiara. 

     “Yes,” Alex says. “A classic Dior. This was the only birthday gift I allowed from a designer.”

     “I see,” Arthur says with an amused chuckle, clasping his hands behind him and standing at her side. “My little monarcho-socialist.”

Alex has always hated his condescending tone when it comes to her feelings about living such an extravagant lifestyle while so many people in their country live hand-to-mouth. “I just think it looks bad,” Alex says crisply. “And it’s wasteful. I don’t need gifts. That doesn’t make me a monarcho-socialist—though I’m certain that I’ve been called worse.”

     “Most likely,” he says, keeping his chin held high as he nods at the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall, who are standing across the room.         “Haven’t we all.” He pauses to greet Lord and Lady Beaufort as they stop to give Alex birthday wishes, and once they’ve walked on, he turns back to Alex. “So shall I return the 1974 Fiat Cinquecento that’s waiting for you behind the palace?”

     Alex’s heart nearly stops. All she’s wanted for years is that tiny, adorable car, and while she could have easily procured it for herself at any point along the way, it has always felt like an extravagance that she couldn’t justify. After all, how often does she even drive herself around anymore? 

     Alex turns to look at him, eyes wide. “Is it pink?”

     Arthur’s smile spreads across his handsome face with amusement. “As a baby’s bottom.”

     This—this one tiny thing—nearly undoes Alex’s entire plan. It almost makes her rethink everything. After thirty years, Arthur has finally heard her. He’s seen her. Her eyes fill with tears and she blinks them back from her lash line to keep her mascara from running. 

     Stop it! she tells herself. You’re acting like a smitten young girl. It’s a damn car, and it’s the least he can do. Alex sniffles and straightens her shoulders, ready to greet the Duke of Sussex as he approaches them. But the idea that Arthur might be entering into this new decade ready to see her for who she is—to really see her and to dote on her—is a little intoxicating. Could this be the start of—

     Alex is smiling at the Duke of Sussex as he booms a hearty birthday greeting in her direction (So un-British, she thinks; it must be the Italian blood from his mother), when she spots the woman whose attendance she’s fretted about for weeks: Jacqueline St. Clare. She’s there, in a strapless floor-length gold brocade gown, with her dark hair in a sleek pixie cut that somehow draws every eye in the room to her massive, buoyant cleavage. 

      Suddenly the image of the pink 1974 Fiat bursts like a soap bubble in Alex’s brain and vanishes; her resolve to carry on with her plan is firmly back in place. 

     After all, who cares about a fifty year old car when your husband invites his mistress to your birthday celebration? It isn’t that she begrudges him his happiness—at least not entirely—but he could have at least kept Jacqueline away from her party.

     “If you’ll excuse me,” Alex says to the Duke of Sussex, placing her fingertips gently on his forearm as she steps away. A hot flash is working its way up her torso, threatening to explode across her chest, up her neck, and to blow her head right off her shoulders if she doesn’t get out of the ballroom immediately. 

     She leaves Prince Arthur and the Duke there talking about the upcoming pheasant hunt (after all, this is October, and they are British noblemen, for heaven’s sake—this topic could occupy them for a solid hour or more) as she makes a break for the double doors that will take her to a private suite. 

     She needs to unzip this damn dress, and she needs to open a window. Now.

* * *

     “Your Highness.” There is a tap on the Queen’s shoulder and she turns her head, right gloved hand in the air, poised like a question mark. “We need you.”

     The Queen frowns almost imperceptibly at her private secretary, a man ten years her junior, but a confidant she trusts implicitly. “What is it?”

      Norton Harwell looks around the bustling ballroom, taking in the people laughing and shimmering beneath the chandeliers. Near the giant Rembrandt that was moved into the ballroom specifically for the occasion, Princess Alexandra and Prince Arthur are speaking to the Duke of Sussex (A loud and brazen man, if you ask Norton Harwell; not very British at all, one might think upon meeting the man). Princess Alexandra is looking a bit pink at the moment, and she’s begun fanning herself with one gloved hand. 

     Harwell leans in closer to the Queen, lowering his voice. “We need you in the control room, Your Highness.”

     The Queen sighs, though not audibly, and gives a single nod, the smile on her face fixed for the crowd. 

     Any summons to the control room is generally bad news, but the Queen hopes it might be something quick and easy; something they can rectify in minutes and be back in the ballroom in time for dinner and the birthday cake. She’s still hoping that she herself might be tucked into her chamber peacefully by eleven o’clock, if all goes well. The Queen gathers a bit of the heavy fabric of her skirt in one gloved hand and follows Harwell. 

     The control center of the palace is situated down a long hallway lined with official oil paintings of present and former royalty. The carpet is red and immaculate, and the light comes from crystal wall sconces. Two stiff-backed men in morning suits and white gloves stand outside the doors, which are twenty-feet tall. It’s nearly ten o'clock at night, and while the sky outside is dark, the lights inside the control room blaze like it's the middle of the day. 

     "Well," the Queen says as she sits in her chair at the head of the table. She leaves the word hanging there. The Queen is a small and dignified woman of nearly eighty, and her steel gray curls are set and sprayed precisely as she likes them. On a normal day, she wouldn’t be sitting in the control room wearing an expensive ballgown and the kind of jewelry that requires its own security detail, but here she is, all done up for a big event and sitting down to hear what bad news is about to break.

     "I think it's safe to say that the time has finally come, and that we've all been preparing for it," says Norton Harwell. As the Queen’s private secretary, he’s seated directly to her right. The bags beneath his eyes, combined with his hangdog expression, make him look like a Newfoundland disguised as a sixty-five-year-old man. “The press has gotten hold of a piece of information, and they’re running a story tonight.”

     "It was only a matter of time,” Violet says. 

      Violet--one name only, like Madonna or Cher--had married into the family in a whirlwind of confetti and excitement. That she'd been both the daughter of an aristocrat, and also a supermodel in her own right who’d walked runways and whose visage had sold millions of dollars in skincare products and lingerie, has only made her more beloved by the masses. The Queen rolls her eyes internally every time Violet speaks. 

     "Alex has known about Arthur's indiscretion for years," Violet goes on, waving a thin, smooth hand through the air like she's casually conducting an orchestra. One of the servants has placed a cup of tea on a saucer near Violet's elbow, and everyone at the table watches it warily as she repeatedly comes close enough to knock the cup over with her bony wrist. "I would never turn a blind eye if my husband had been out gallivanting around London with another woman in front of God and everybody. It almost serves her right that it's coming out this way."

     There isn't a single person at the table who can completely hide the flicker of amusement that bubbles up over this statement, but most can glance into their own laps or cough discreetly in order to mask their response. Prince David—Violet’s husband, and Prince Arthur's younger brother—is a well-known lothario. The man has so many notches on his royal bedpost that it's nearly whittled to sawdust. 

    "Yes, dear," the Queen says briskly, intervening to shift the conversation back to the matter at hand. Her eyes flick around the table as she realizes that Prince Arthur himself is notably absent from the group, though her younger son, David, is looking sheepishly at his watch, his neck reddened from the words that have just crossed his wife's artificially plumped lips. "Now, let's talk strategy, because we desperately need one."

     With a deep, annoyed sigh, David finally enters the conversation. He tugs at the collar and bowtie that he’s worn for the big birthday celebration, and this makes him look like a petulant little boy. ”Can't we just stop them from printing the story? Why is this even a discussion?" He taps his fingers against the table in a way that telegraphs his deep impatience with the whole situation.

     "No, darling," the Queen says, turning to smile patiently at her younger son. "We cannot stop the free press from reporting a fact, which is that your brother has historically been unable to stay chained to his marital bed."

Prince David makes a face at this like he disapproves of his brother's behavior, but again, everyone at the table understands that it's the idea of being chained to a marital bed that disgusts him. 

     "So," the Queen goes on, opening the manila folder that rests on the table in front of her and scanning the document within. "The London Daily will run a story just after midnight, and my guess is that it will be a largely unflattering portrait of Prince Arthur. We do not need this sort of publicity, but when one behaves as one desires rather than as one should, we end up in situations where we have to defend the Crown." Her brows are knit together, and her forehead looks like a dark thundercloud as she glances around the table at each face in attendance. "Our only job now is to figure out how to spin this story and lessen the blow." She pauses, pressing her lips together as her eyes land on Norton Harwell. "So, what ideas do we have?"

     The clock on the mantel over the fireplace ticks loudly in the silence that comes from the table, and every member of this royal team, decked from head to toe in their finest party clothes, studiously looks in a different direction. 

     There are no ideas. No one wants to tell the Queen that there is no good way to spin her son's decade-long extramarital affair in the press. 

     The Queen closes the folder, laces her fingers together on top of it, and waits. 

* * *

      The window in the private suite off the ballroom is open to let in the cool October night air. Alexandra has successfully unzipped her gown and she’s using wads of Kleenex to mop up the sweat that’s collected between and under her bare breasts. If anyone walked into the well-appointed powder room right now, they’d wonder what the hell was going on, but she’s locked the door and left the skeleton key with its feather keyring dangling in the lock. 

      Alex walks to the window, peering out into the night to make sure that no one is below who might see her as she bares her entire torso to the moon. With a deep breath in through her nose, out through her mouth, she can feel her internal temperature start to return to a normal place. Alex fans herself with both hands, letting the cool air hit her hot, slick skin. 

      This has to work. This night is all she’s thought about for months, and nothing can stop her now. Not her husband and his annoyingly timed attempt to suddenly care about her. Not the way her children look carefree and incandescent as they sip their cocktails and laugh with their young, aristocratic friends on the dance floor. And certainly not her in-laws, who would cuff her, chain her, and throw her in the Tower of London if they got wind of what she’s about to do. 

      After five minutes of breathing smoothly and freely in the moonlight that streams through the window, Alex shimmies the bodice of her dress back over her breasts, zipping it with some effort and tucking herself in all around so that everything is even when she looks in the mirror. She leans in to her reflection, dabbing now at her neck and behind her ears, then at her hairline as she tries to absorb the rest of the sweat that had erupted like a volcano as her eyes had landed on Jacqueline St. Clare. 

      It is an open secret in her world that Arthur and Jacqueline are in love, and it isn’t the redirection of her husband’s affection that bothers her. At some point in the past thirty years, Alex’s heart had turned towards her children and her charities, and Arthur’s towards Jacqueline, which Alex accepts, but having the woman at her fiftieth birthday is almost more than she can take. Arthur really could have made sure that Jacqueline didn’t attend tonight.

      As she turns from side to side, Alex takes one more look at her body in the mirror, rueing the fact that she’d never actively appreciated not having armpit fat as a younger woman, or not realizing that her breasts wouldn’t always sit where they should, but would need to be pulled, tucked, and coerced into place by the age of fifty. 

      She sighs again and tosses all of her Kleenex into the gold trash basket under the vanity table. It’s time to get back out there and finish this party. 

      It’s time to finish this party and start what comes next. 

      Alex twists the feathered key in the lock and lets herself out of the private suite. As she does, the jazz quartet plays a rendition of the Beatles’ “Birthday,” and she knows that the time has come to make both her entrance and her exit. 

* * *

     “Smyth-Jones!” calls the exhausted-looking editor of The London Daily. He’s caught her mid-stride as she crosses the still busy newsroom with her phone in one hand and her reading glasses in the other. “I need you.”

      Willow stops in her tracks. This is not the time for Gerald Dalrymple to get in her way, though he does seem to have an uncanny knack for doing so.

      “Gerald,” she says, trying to mask her impatience as she glances at her Apple watch. “How can I help?”

Dalrymple smooths the handful of flyaway strands of hair that cling stubbornly to his round head. He sighs. “I hear you’ve got a scoop. Can you come into my office, please?”

      Willow tries desperately not to let the hope inside her deflate like a pricked balloon. She follows her boss, holding her head high.

      “Have a seat,” Dalrymple says, closing the door to the office. Everyone in the main newsroom is visible through Dalrymple’s office windows as they work at their individual cubicles, typing, kicking back amidst empty cups of coffee, and tossing wadded up balls of paper at one another jokingly. The closer it gets to midnight, the scrappier things get in the newsroom. 

      “What’s wrong, sir?” Willow asks, feigning concern. Damn Ethan. He probably told Dalrymple that she’d gotten a mysterious call at their desk and scurried off to get the scoop. She cannot give her boss this information. She cannot let him take it from her. 

      “I hear you have a source,” Dalrymple starts. “And I understand they’ve given you something of a breaking story. A lead, if you will.”

      Willow looks at her watch again. “Mmm. Yes. I do have a source, and I have a great lead, but I really need to get this typed up now so that I can post it before—“

      Gerald Dalrymple holds up a hand to stop her. “This story really needs to go to a more senior member of the staff, Willow. Particularly if it pertains to the palace.”

     Willow actually deflates, her shoulders falling a few inches. “How did you hear what it was?”

     Dalrymple waves his hand through the air. “I know all and see all, and more importantly, I have the final say on the stories we print, as well as the final say on who gets the byline.”

     Willow lifts her chin as she exhales towards the ceiling. She’s been at The London Daily now for three years, and in that time, she’s done every bloody thing that Gerald Dalrymple has asked her to, aside from the time he drunkenly asked her to go out with his son at the Christmas party. Willow has tweaked every story to his liking, taken the smallest, least interesting beats, talked to the most incoherent and uncooperative interview subjects. And she’s worked nights, weekends, holidays—hell, she even missed her grandfather’s funeral when Dalrymple asked her to cover a major international crisis involving Lithuania and Belarus. Her mother still hasn’t forgiven her for that one, but in her heart she hopes that her grandfather, who’d worked his entire life until he dropped dead from a heart attack at 80, might understand her need to put work first. 

      “But Gerald,” Willow starts to protest. Again, he holds up a hand. “This source called me. They trust me.”

      He lowers his gaze, looking over the tops of his square glasses at her from the other side of the desk. “I understand your desire to elevate yourself here, Willow, but—“

      This is where Willow would normally let her head fall a bit, would quietly give up, and would think ahead to being at home, eating a packet of crisps on the couch in her sweats, but not this time. She’s not giving up what could turn out to be the biggest story of her life—at least not without a fight. 

     She stands up, tugging at the ends of her stretched-out cardigan as if it’s a sharply ironed blazer. “Gerald,” she says, looking down at her boss’s shocked face. “I don’t have to give you my source, nor the information they shared with me.”

     At this, Gerald stands, indignation coming off of his stout figure in waves. “Like hell you don’t,” he says, jabbing a fat finger into his desk and then wincing at the self-inflicted pain. “You will tell me immediately, and you will give me the full details. That information is the intellectual property of this newspaper, Willow, not you.”

     At this angry declaration from a man who usually keeps his cool, she knows she’s won. A slow smile spreads across Willow’s face.    “Untrue. A source reached out to me and offered information based on trust, and if you want that story to run in The London Daily, you’ll let me write this.” She pauses, watching as his ruddy cheeks turn reddish-purple. “And if you don’t, some other paper will get the scoop first.”

Gerald makes a sound and looks as though he’d like to reach across the desk and slap the impertinent smile off Willow’s face—he very much looks like the words, “If you were my daughter,” are about to cross his lips—but Willow is done here. She turns and opens the door to his office, walking across the newsroom to her desk. 

     She’s got a story to write and file, and the clock is ticking.

* * *

     The tarmac at London City Airport is rain-slicked and dark. A shiny Gulfstream jet hums on the runway, its round windows lit from within as the crew prepares to take their honored guest to a location that they haven’t even been told about yet. There have been no security leaks, no breaches of confidence. The pilot has filed his flight plan and is the only person on the plane who knows the identity of their passenger that night. Everyone on the flight manifest is identified by initials only, and the flight attendants only know that they have a top-tier VIP to attend to. 

     The limousine pulls onto the tarmac, sidling right up to the plane, its lights slicing through the dark, drizzly night. 

Alex sits cocooned in a nest of cashmere scarves in the back of the limo, her face turned partially towards the window. Even through the glass, she can feel London. She can smell it. She understands the city. Her country is in her bones, in her blood, in her heart… but it will no longer be in her sights, and Alex has to be okay with this. She’s made a hard decision to leave it all behind, and leave it behind she must—even her children, for now. 

     “Your Highness.” The driver, Nigel, has known Alex for a decade. He, like everyone else, treats her with the appropriate amount of respect and deference, but Nigel is one of the few people in Alex’s orbit who truly gets her, and that fact alone has bought him rare moments of real laughter and connection with the princess as they’ve driven through the streets of the city together over the years. 

      Their eyes lock in the rearview mirror, and once again, perhaps for the last time, they exchange a knowing glance. Nigel’s eyes twinkle with the mirth of someone who has shared jokes and hijinks with a friend, and Alex’s heart softens. Nigel has taken her on midnight runs to the countryside to eat in quiet pubs while wearing ridiculous wigs and glasses. He’s kept his eyes straight ahead on the road as Alex sobbed in the back of the car, distraught once again over something that Arthur had said or done. Nigel has run into stores on her behalf for tampons, for champagne, for tabloid magazines. He’s been there for her, with his quiet good humor, and there is no simpler way for Alex to acknowledge the truth: she’ll miss him. 

     “Take care of yourself,” Alex whispers now, her eyes still on his in the mirror. The lights of the plane blink outside in the darkness, flashing against the wet pavement. 

     Nigel touches the brim of his cap, nodding his head slightly. “And you as well, Your Highness.”

     Her door opens with a whoosh, letting cold air swirl through the backseat of the limo. A gloved hand reaches into the car, and Alex takes it. She’s pulled to her feet and positioned beneath an oversized navy blue umbrella before a single drop of rain can touch her, and as she watches, men scurry like tiny ants dressed in black, unloading the trunks and luggage she’s brought along, then ferrying it all into the belly of the plane. A sturdy staircase is open from the aircraft, its railings gleaming silver in the moonlight. 

      “I guess this is it then,” Will says, walking Alex to the bottom of the steps with her hand tucked through the crook of his arm. 

      She looks up at her younger brother from where they both stand beneath the umbrella. “I can’t believe you left the party to be here,” she says. Her eyes are misty with unshed tears, as she’s fully expected to embark upon this part of the journey alone.

Will’s lips curl up in an amused smile, and the knowledge of each other and of their shared history passes between them. “I can’t believe you left the party,” he says with a smirk. “My older sister wants to throw a brick through the window of the monarchy, and you think I’m just going to stand around hobnobbing with her in-laws, hoping that they’ll hand out birthday cake in her absence?”

      This makes Alex giggle, the image of her stately, refined brother hoping for a slice of the chocolate buttercream cake she’d asked for on this momentous occasion. “Mmm,” she says, shaking her head. “No. I suppose not. But I still appreciate you being here. It means a lot.”

      Will turns to face her, looking down into her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re searching for Alexandra, but I do hope you find it. And no matter what happens—no matter what the world says—I’m on your side.”

      This time Alex’s eyes fill with actual tears, not just the threat of them, and a tiny sob catches in her throat. Her baby brother. The little boy who’d followed her around as a toddler, falling and skinning his knees as he tried to keep up with the sister who was already eight years old when he was born. “Thanks, Willie,” she says softly, using the nickname that only she is allowed to use. “I’ll call as soon as I’m settled.”

     The engine of the plane rumbles as the curious but discreet staff of flight attendants take turns peeking through the porthole windows at the shadowy figures standing at the bottom of the stairs. 

     “Okay,” Will says, opening his arms for a quick hug. “Off you go, Pongo. Safe travels.” 

      Alex doesn’t trust herself to say more, but she smiles widely at the nickname he’d given her as a teenager. She hugs her younger brother quickly and fiercely, then turns to rush up the stairs, leaving him holding the umbrella as he looks up at her boarding the plane. 

      Within minutes, a stunned but experienced crew has Alex settled in a comfortable leather seat the color of vanilla ice cream, and she’s unwound her scarves and unbuttoned her coat. The trip will take nearly eight hours, and Alex will spend it alternately sipping wine, staring out the window, and dozing as she thinks of her children. 

      In rapid succession, the plane is cleared for takeoff, the flight crew takes their seats, and Princess Alexandra is airborne, making her way across the Atlantic as the taillights of the Gulfstream wink hopefully in the night sky. 

The princess has officially left the palace. 

 

* * *

Princess Alexandra Flees Into the Night

by Willow Smyth-Jones

Staff Reporter, The London Daily

 

     On the evening of Princess Alexandra’s fiftieth birthday party, Her Royal Highness celebrated the milestone by leaving the palace. 

Princess Alexandra—born Alexandra Ingrid Mary Briarbridge on October 13, 1975—married into the monarchy before the eyes of the world when she wed Prince Arthur of Wales in a fairytale wedding on January 9, 1995. The births of Malcolm in 1999 and Anna in 2005 completed the family, and for decades, Princess Alexandra has served the monarchy through her various charitable works and through the support of her favorite causes.   

      A beloved member of Britain’s royal family, Princess Alexandra appeared at her own birthday party in a classic Christian Dior gown and wearing the family’s jewels. At some point during the evening, Alexandra disappeared to get some air, but did not return. 

Partygoers report that Princess Alexandra was seen laughing, sipping champagne, and enjoying the event with Prince Arthur, and no one was aware of her imminent departure. 

      Flight logs from London City Airport cannot confirm conclusively that she was on the flight that left at 11:13pm for Boston, but the flight manifest lists an ‘AIMB’ as the plane’s only passenger, and a palace source has confirmed that ‘The princess has had her bags packed for days. Her lady-in-waiting helped her make all the plans, and we’re pretty sure she’s leaving for America and not coming back.’

     The palace has officially refused to comment.