They showed up without an appointment the day after flying into London. They appeared at nine a.m., and Amalia’s personal secretary greeted Margaret effusively. “Oh, your mother will be delighted to see you! Her Majesty is on a phone call right now, but it won’t be long.”

  “Great.” Margaret managed a passable smile.

  Two minutes later, they were ushered inside Amalia’s office. It was a large, grand space, and a portrait of Amalia, Henry and their three daughters as young children graced the wall behind her ornate desk.

  Amalia rose from her chair. “Thank you, Erica,” she said, dismissing her secretary.

  “Ma’am.”

  “Well,” Amalia said after Erica left. She folded her hands together, and her lips curled upward. “Katharine tells me that congratulations are in order.”

  “Yes,” Margaret said.

  Amalia made no move to hug them. Tessa could see the fear on her face, that if she made any attempt to touch her daughter, Margaret might confirm Amalia’s worst fears that the daughter hated the mother irrevocably and would turn her in and crumble the monarchy into dust.

  “Anything I can do,” Amalia said. “You two just let me know. Katharine explained that you and I need to have a talk, Tessa.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll set up a time for that this afternoon and another appointment later in the week for the three of us to go over all of Margaret’s affairs.”

  “Mother,” Margaret said. “Why did you do it? And why did you tell me?”

  Amalia slid back into her seat. A vacant look entered her eyes. “You were sucking your thumb, Margaret. You were twenty-eight years old and heir to the throne. Katharine was single and not dating anyone. There was no Alexander. It was your lowest point in a long time. I wanted to shock sense into you. I don’t know. It made perfect sense in my mind back then, and I got in bed with you one night. I didn’t plan it, not really. I told Nurse to take the night off and it happened. It was selfish. I needed to talk, and deep down, I never expected you to hear or remember.”

  “I got it mixed up in my head, Mother. Bet you didn’t count on that. For a long time, I believed that I killed my father. I remembered doing it. I remember talking with Alicia and how the light framed her head just so and made her look like an angel. These were your memories! You made me think I was a killer!”

  Amalia may have expected the news, for her face stayed stoic. “I’m very sorry. I know there’s no way I can make anything up to you.”

  “Why did you kill him?”

  “I’m not sure it matters,” Amalia said. “It never should have happened. Whatever reasons I give, whatever reasons I had, they weren’t good enough and never will be.”

  “Try.”

  “I was weak. I didn’t want to lose my title and be embarrassed on the international stage. He refused a separation. We had to stay together or divorce, and he would take everything from me that he could.”

  “You would’ve agreed to separation?”

  “Yes,” Amalia said. “I wanted separation.”

  “The king and the queen have never separated.”

  “I know, but the king or queen had never been openly gay. Your sister gave me the courage to ask for separation.”

  Margaret went to one of her mother’s bookshelves. Framed photos lined up on one shelf, and Margaret pointed out a few. “All of Dad. How can you bear looking at his face?”

  “I can’t,” she whispered. “But people would think it odd if I had no pictures of my husband in here. Are you telling Katharine and Emma? Have you already?”

  “No, and we don’t plan to,” Margaret said.

  Faint relief in Amalia’s eyes. “Thank you.”

  Amalia propped on a pair of spectacles and flipped through a notebook on her desk. “Does three p.m. today work for you, Tessa?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that mean we’re dismissed? Do you have another phone call, Mother?”

  Tessa saw the incredulity on Margaret’s face. The love too. They’d talked quite a few times about Margaret’s conflicted feelings toward her mother. Amalia had done a terrible deed, but she was still Margaret’s mother. Margaret wanted to hate her but couldn’t find it in herself to.

  “I think,” Tessa said, “we could use a round of hugs. To celebrate.” She’d make the first move so Margaret didn’t have to. She went toward Amalia, whose expression was confused but hopeful. They embraced, and then Margaret went into Amalia’s arms for the kind of hug only a mother can give.

  The queen mother’s perfume was understated but noticeable, and Tessa made a mental note to ask her this afternoon if it was Baccarat Les Larmes Sacrees de Thebes. If so, she needed to stop wearing it.

  **

  Over the next few years, Margaret kept Amalia at a distance. Not quite the same distance Katharine did, but enough. The previous closeness between mother and daughter disappeared, but they had their moments of intimacy. It was when Margaret began her downward spiral that Amalia stepped fully back into the frame.

  Margaret had started to forget that her mother killed her father. She’d also forgotten that she used to believe she herself killed Henry. She was confused, upset, panicked by the downward spiral, and she wanted her mother.

  Amalia was there for Tessa twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and this woman Tessa had loathed for years and who she had begun to somewhat like in recent years became her best friend. They went to doctors together. They researched together. They cried together. Amalia even moved into a small apartment in Kensington so she could be right on the premises instead of at Clarence House.

  Amalia, who wasn’t married and the mother of a young child like Katharine and Emma, had time. She asked Tessa questions. She made sure that Tessa tried to remember to take care of herself amidst the chaos. And one night, she told Tessa her other big secret.

  “I had a baby before Katharine. A boy, a beautiful boy,” Amalia said.

  Tessa’s eyes widened. “You did?”

  “He was Henry’s, conceived soon after we met at St. Andrew’s. I gave him up for adoption. I used my friend Annika’s name on the birth certificate as his mother. I left the father’s name blank, but my son got my last name—Van den Berg. Well, until his new family adopted him. Now his name is Brian David Cushings.”

  Tessa gave an anxious little cough. “Wow.”

  “Annika and I lost touch a long time ago, so I don’t know if he has tried to find his birth mother. I have pictures of him back at Clarence House. I’ll get them tomorrow and show you.”

  “Is he on Facebook or another social medial platform?”

  Amalia brightened. “I don’t know. Can we check?”

  Tessa found Amalia’s son on Facebook. His profile picture showed him laughing with his new wife.

  “He doesn’t have children yet,” Amalia said. “Men have the luxury of waiting.”

  “Goodness. He’s handsome.” Tessa refrained from stating the obvious: He was his biological father, Henry made flesh again.

  “The girls don’t know,” Amalia said. “I don’t want them to find out. I had my lawyer…some years ago, I gave my lawyer a letter for Katharine to open after both her father and I died. It explained about Brian. I took it back a few years ago. It’s best that some things remain buried. My girls have gone through enough. My boy has too. I’m a very different person from when I had him. I’m also very different from the woman I was when Henry died.”

  “I understand.”

  “It really is important for some things to remain buried, no matter how much we may want to let them breathe. No matter how much we want to redress injustices.”

  “I do understand. I do.”

  “But,” Amalia continued. “Maybe we should try telling Margaret about me causing her father’s death. Maybe that’s what she needs to help her remember everything else.”

  Tessa had been thinking the same thing, but this move had many potential pitfalls. “It could set her back even more. It could lead to her telling other people.”

  “Yes. No easy answers.”

  Tessa turned on the TV in Amalia’s bedroom as the older woman smiled at Tessa’s phone and exclaimed at the pictures of her only son, her eldest child. The theme song for a comedy sounded, and disquieting rumblings and plain old exhaustion interfered with Tessa’s thought process. “I could send him a friend request,” she volunteered. “Friending him would get you access to more pictures.”

  Amalia’s fingers tensed above the touchscreen.

  “Or not,” Tessa said quickly. “No pressure, just something for you to think about.”

  Amalia looked away. Then back at Tessa. Eye contact. Amalia’s deep vivid blue eyes. More eye contact. Awkward. Weird.

  “How would that work?” Amalia asked.

  “I’m on Facebook under a fake name so I can keep track of people from my old life. I’d request him from there. Some people accept any and all friend requests, but you’re right. We don’t know each other. Let me see his interests.”

  Tessa took the phone back. Brian belonged to several groups, including one to find free or discounted sci-fi ebooks.

  Tessa sent a request to join that group and was immediately accepted. She explained to Amalia what she’d done and searched for posts Brian made in the group.

  “Katharine likes sci-fi too,” Amalia murmured.

  Tessa found a post from three days ago in which Brian wondered why a certain book had been de-listed from Amazon. Other than that, he made one or two posts a month touting deals he’d found.

  She sent the friend request then messaged him. I’m in the free/discounted sci-fi group. Looks like we have lots of similar tastes! Great to meet you.

  “You messaged him,” Amalia said accusingly.

  “It increases the chances he’ll accept my request.”

  “I could talk to him,” Amalia said slowly, excitement coloring her face. “Through you. I could talk to my son! I can talk to my son, and he doesn’t have to know it’s his mother!”

  “That’s true,” Tessa conceded. “For now, it’s better to hold back and let me handle—”

  Ding. The friend request had been accepted. A reply to Tessa’s message appeared a few seconds later: Thanks! My preferences lean towards time travel and genetics experiments gone haywire. How about yours?

  Amalia squealed. “Let me reply! Let me reply!”

  “Do you know anything about sci-fi?”

  “A slight amount because of Katharine. Do you?”

  “Yes,” Tessa said. “I do, actually.”

  Amalia possessed precious little experience with phone touchscreens, and Tessa helped her hunt and peck letters for her message: Which time travel books do you—

  Before Amalia could finish, another message popped up from Brian: GTG! Chat later.

  Amalia set down the phone, leaving her message incomplete. Tears flowed from her eyes, and she threw her arms around Tessa. “Thank you, thank you,” she breathed into Tessa’s ear. After a moment, Amalia broke away and wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. He’s your son. He’s part of you.”

  Amalia went into the bathroom, perhaps to blow her nose and wash her face. Tessa picked her phone up and studied the unfinished message. She typed the rest of the question, listed her top five time travel books and sent the message.

  She really, really didn’t want to have to tell Margaret that her mother killed her father. The image of Amalia delighting over her son’s pictures lingered in Tessa’s mind. Amalia Van den Berg was much more than a cardboard villain. She was a mother, a woman, a widow, a sinner, full of regret but also hopeful. Hopeful that Katharine one day would let her in a little more and hopeful that she’d get to meet her son again, even if he didn’t know she was his biological mother.

  Hopeful, too, that her middle daughter would recover yet again. So hopeful that she was willing to risk estrangement from Margaret if it meant she would be happy with Tessa again.

  **

  The night before the Hyde Park picnic lunch with Margaret, Tessa asked Amalia when and how she knew her marriage was doomed, beyond repair.

  Amalia was in the middle of reading one of Brian’s favorite books and looked up with a quizzical expression. “Pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  Amalia set aside the book, which was the old-fashioned print kind, not on an e-reader. She folded her hands in her lap, crossed her ankles and fixed Tessa with somber eyes. “Are you talking about you and Margaret?”

  “Answer the question, please.”

  “I knew before we got married,” Amalia admitted. “I hadn’t wanted to say yes, but he proposed in front of his mother and my mother, there were tears, and I said yes. I hoped things would change, that I would find some magical potion and fall completely in love with him and vice versa.” She reached for the book she’d set on the end table and used it to occupy her hands. “You and Margaret, Tessa, you weren’t like that. The two of you were genuinely happy and in love.”

  “It’s not the same Margaret anymore.”

  “No, but she’s been consistent the past two weeks. You and another version of Margaret could find something special.”

  “Consistent? Sure, in that she hates my guts. She can’t stand to be around me. I wonder about finding her a man she’s attracted to, someone she won’t need a steep learning curve with if she loses her memory again. She needs a man that she can smile and laugh with and jump into bed with a few minutes after meeting him. She has two weeks’ worth of memory of me, but I have months and months of her waking up, finding out she’s married to me and pulling a face like it’s the most horrible thing in the world. I have months of watching her whisper to staffers and ask if she’s really married to me. I have months of her watching hunky men and wishing I was them.”

  “What about you? What would you do if a man for Margaret was found?”

  Tessa thought about Katharine and Veronica. Some nights, she fell asleep and felt on board-ish with the idea. Other nights, it seemed ridiculous. Besides, Katharine had phrased her offer in a way that made it seem like more of a stopgap measure and not a long-term plan. Something for Tessa to have if she got crazily desperate, something to tide her over in the moment but not in the big picture.

  “I don’t know,” Tessa said. “Do you miss companionship?”

  A chuckle. “I have you.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Amalia nodded. “I’ve missed it. Matter of fact, I’ve been seeing someone on and off.”

  “Whoa. I’m just now finding out about this?”

  Amalia smiled. “We’re keeping it private.”

  “Tell me about him. Come on.”

  “No,” Amalia said.

  Tessa was hurt. Of course she was. Amalia was supposed to be her best friend. They’d spent hours researching, crying and bonding, and Amalia hid this critical thing from her.

  “It’s not personal,” Amalia murmured. “I just really want to…” She cupped her hands together as if to make a ball. “I want to keep us contained and away from the outside world as much as possible.”

  “Fair enough,” Tessa said, but she still hurt. “Does he know about Brian and the other thing?”

  “Brian, yes. I told him last week. Oh, my heart was racing and my stomach was in knots, but he responded beautifully. The other thing…no. I learned my lesson telling Margaret. I shall never tell another soul as long as I live. The only exception is if we agree to tell Margaret again.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Margaret and Tessa walked together to the fake NYC flat to play the strangers game, and Margaret’s stomach tightened. Her nervousness overwhelmed the sexual current thrumming through her body. Why had she suggested they do the game? Instead of using it for sex, she should use it as a way to ease into the difficult conversation she and Tessa needed to have.

  In the flat, Margaret asked, “Where do you want to pretend we are?”

  Tessa threw out ideas—beach, office, plane, library, bar, prison, motel check-in desk, university, pet shelter, doctor’s office, strip club.

  Prison appealed to Margaret the most since it related directly to their predicament. Too directly, in fact. Courage failed her, and she said, “Whorehouse.” Whoa. Where did that come from?

  Tessa blinked. “Was that on the list?”

  “No.”

  Tessa grinned a tiny, impish smile that, amazingly, lifted Margaret’s mood. “Sounds good,” Tessa said. “Are we both prostitutes or…”

  A moment of clarity grasped Margaret. “I’m the customer. You’re the hooker.” She would get Tessa in a weak, vulnerable position. Tessa would have little choice but to discuss the killing and admit her guilt. Their guilt.

  “Wow,” Tessa said. “Okay, let’s do it.”

  **

  Tessa retreated to her suite to get properly dressed. She’d also promised to bring “toys.” She’d gone off with a spring in her step, and Margaret felt guilty for misleading her about her intentions.

  She looked herself over in the mirror. She’d dressed in a men’s suit she found hanging in the closet. Who knew how it came to be there, but there it was, replete with suspenders, a paisley tie and shiny shoes that fit her perfectly. She looped the tie into place and tightened it. One of her lessons as a teenage princess, learning how to do a man’s tie.

  She remembered virtually everything before the shootings and a good chunk of the months in which Adam and Alec were in her life. Even during that time, though, her memory could be spotty. For example, she had no recollection of planning a trip to New York or making her first official appearance. But she did remember her first time meeting Alexander, and she recalled being upset that Adam wouldn’t try hard enough with her.

  Margaret deemed herself ready for Tessa’s visit and turned the TV on to keep her company while she waited. Perfect timing, as Tessa at a podium filled the screen. “Her Royal Highness The Countess of Wessex was named today as a recipient of the second-annual Byron McAllister humanities award. She will be recognized at the ceremony next month for her efforts in setting up pet therapy programs in care homes and prisons,” the reporter said.