“He usually was,” I say, tremulously.
“Please don’t self-sacrifice here just because you feel like it’s too late. Is all this worth it? The press, all the scrutiny, the rigid rules? Because if you don’t really, really love him enough to put up with it, then I will call Eleanor myself and tell her the wedding is off and we can disappear someplace tropical and let the papers publish whatever they want. Speak now or forever hold your peace, baby. Is it too much?”
“It is a lot,” I tell her. “But to me, he is worth everything.”
A tear falls. Then another. Mom draws us both in and kisses the tops of our heads. Our last hug like this was the night Nick gave me the Lyons Emerald. And now I might have to give it back.
I pull away and look at them, beseeching. “What am I going to do?”
“We,” Lacey says.
“Thank you,” I say, barely choking out the words. “But I think this one is on me alone.”
“Well, you can’t kill Clive without me,” Lacey says. “You have to exsanguinate the body into mason jars so there’s no blood trail. It’s a two-person job.”
“That is disturbingly specific,” Mom says.
Lacey shrugs. “I was in med school for about five minutes, remember?” she says. “We had weird late-night discussions.” She sounds wistful, which I take as a sign that another long-missed part of my sister may come back to me.
“Bex!” booms Cilla, banging on the door. “Get a move on, or I’ll send Gaz in wearing nothing but a crumpet.”
“Now what?” Lacey whispers.
“We get a move on,” I say, wiping my face. “I don’t want to know where Gaz would put the crumpet.”
“But you haven’t decided anything,” she says. “We haven’t helped yet.”
“You have, actually,” I say. “More than you know. I think…” I make sure it feels right; it does. “I’m going to tell Nick.”
Lacey pales. “No. We can go to Clive. Surely he’ll see sense. There has to be a way.”
“Not this time,” I say. “This all happened because I felt powerless. I can’t take away Nick’s power to decide. It’s not fair. And I can’t hide one lie by dumping other ones on top of it. I’d hate myself. It would kill whatever’s left of me that still feels like me.”
“She’s right, sweetie,” Mom says to Lacey. “Begin as you mean to continue, as they say.”
“I have to tell Freddie, too.” I rest my forehead on my bent knees. “It’s going to ruin their relationship. I hate that the most. I’ve been without my sister, and it sucks.”
“It will work out, Bex,” Mom says. “Just be honest. Have faith.”
I hear in this the same advice I gave Nick the day he told the truth about Emma. It had worked then; was there enough faith left to help me now? I feel Lacey’s hand reach out and stroke my hair, and I luxuriate in the familiarity of this, like there was never a gulf between us.
“Your hair extensions seriously are fantastic,” she murmurs. “I know there are no freebies, but would it kill you to hook a sister up?”
The door bursts open just as we both start to giggle.
“Time’s up, Porters,” Cilla says. “If Bex is late, we’ll all be sent to the Tower.”
“Are you ready?” Lacey asks me.
I shake my head, halfway between laughter and tears. “Do I have a choice?”
*
An elderly couple has draped the metal barricade outside Westminster Abbey with a banner claiming they’ve witnessed three generations of Lyons weddings. “Congratulations!” they cry out when my car door opens.
“Rebecca! Give us a wave!” shouts a younger woman. She is wearing Union Jack–printed novelty sunglasses and a light-up tiara.
“You look so pretty!” lisps a little girl at the front, no more than six or seven. She wiggles a bouquet of freesias at me.
I can get in and out of cars nearly as gracefully as Eleanor now, and as I glide to my feet, I am struck not only by the sheer number of people gathered to wish me well, but by their intensity. Once the calendar flipped into the year of our wedding, a switch congruently flipped in the hearts of the public and much of the media. I don’t know why; maybe just the anticipation of the global spectacle, or the uptick in stories about Regular Girl Nabs Prince Charming (applications to Oxford from US exchange programs reportedly tripled, even without a prince in residence to lure them). Or, it’s possible everybody decided that this was happening regardless, so they might as well get on board.
British and American flags bob vigorously as the teeming throng chants, sings, and cheers, at least a quarter of them wearing ghastly paper novelty masks of my face that will dance in the foreground of my nightmares for the rest of my life (matched for creepiness only by the time Nick put one on and danced around in his boxers, just to goad me). Nick and I have encountered friendly support at the few events we’ve done this year, but this is the first time it’s been on such a massive scale—people who have waited all day for me to arrive at the rehearsal, and will stay overnight to see me come back tomorrow—and as I look back at them, I know the expression on my face is of unladylike shock and delight.
The little girl bounces and shouts, “Daddy, she sees me!”
I’m not supposed to engage people yet, but she is darling, missing two front teeth, with golden pigtails and a fluffy pink party dress. She reminds me of Lacey, an eternity ago.
I scoot over to where she stands. “Freesias are my favorite,” I say, squatting and accepting the bouquet. “How did you know?”
“I read it in heat magazine. Mummy keeps it in the loo and says I’m not to touch it because it’s for grown-up ladies.” She beams proudly at me. “I was naughty.”
“I’ll never tell.” I grin back. “What’s your name?”
“Adelaide.”
“Can I tell you a secret, Adelaide?” I ask. She leans eagerly into me. “I’m a little nervous,” I confess.
“Mummy bet Daddy ten pounds that you’ll mix up his names,” she says.
“Nah, I’ll be fine,” I say. “His name’s Harold, right?”
She giggles. “No!”
“Yes, Prince Harold Tiddlywinks Cadbury, I’m sure of it,” I say.
She giggles harder. “You’re very silly. Are you allowed to be silly?”
I grin. “I hope so, Adelaide.”
PPO Stout puts gentle pressure on my arm. My impromptu sojourn has to end. I split the bouquet in half and hand part of it back to her.
“Here, you keep half, and I’ll carry the rest tomorrow,” I say as I stand. “For good luck.”