Bea and Henry both had an October as busy as their mother’s. There were a lot of decisions to be made in that first week: Would they ignore the revelations about Bea in the emails (no), would Henry be forced to enlist after all (after days of deliberation, no), and, above all, how could all this be made into a positive? The solution had been one Bea and Henry came up with together, twin philanthropic efforts under their own names. Bea’s, a charity fund supporting addiction recovery programs all over the UK, and Henry’s, an LGBT rights foundation. To their right, the lighting trusses are going up quickly over the stage where Bea will be playing an £8,000-a-ticket concert with a live band and celebrity guests tonight, her first solo fundraiser. “Man, I wish I could stay for the show,” Alex says. Bea beams. “It’s a shame Henry here was too busy signing papers with Auntie Pezza all week to learn some sheet music or we could have fired our pianist.” “Papers?” Alex says, cocking an eyebrow. Henry shoots Bea a silencing glare. “Bea—” “For the youth shelters,” she says. “Beatrice,” Henry admonishes. “It was going to be a surprise.” “Oh,” Bea says, busying herself with her phone. “Oops.” Alex looks at Henry. “What’s going on?” Henry sighs. “Well. We were going to wait to announce it—and to tell you, obviously—until after the election, so as not to step on your moment. But . . .” He puts his hands in his pockets, in that way he does when he’s feeling proud of something but trying not to act like it. “Mum and I agreed the foundation shouldn’t just be national, that there was work to be done all over the world, and I specifically wanted to focus on homeless queer youth. So, Pez signed all our Okonjo Foundation youth shelters over.” He bounces on his heels a little, visibly tamping down a broad smile. “You're looking at the proud father of four worldwide soonto-be shelters for disenfranchised queer teenagers.” “Oh my God, you bastard,” Alex practically yells, lunging at Henry and throwing his arms around his neck. “That’s amazing. I stupid love you. Wow.” He yanks back suddenly, stricken. “Wait, oh my God, this means the one in Brooklyn too? Right?” “Yes, it does.” “Didn’t you tell me you wanted to be hands-on with the foundation?” Alex says, his pulse jumping. “Don’t you think maybe direct supervision might be helpful while it gets off the ground?” “Alex,” Henry tells him, “I can’t move to New York.” Bea looks up. “Why not?” “Because I’m the prince of—” Henry looks over at her and gestures at the Orangery, at Kensington, sputtering. “Here!” Bea shrugs, unmoved. “And? It doesn’t have to be permanent. You spent a month of your gap year talking to yaks in Mongolia, H. It’s hardly unprecedented.” Henry moves his mouth a couple times, ever the skeptic, and swivels back to Alex. “Well, I’d still hardly see you, would I?” he reasons. “If you’re in DC for work all the time, beginning your meteoric rise to the political stratosphere?” And this, Alex has to admit, is a point. A point that after the year he’s had, after everything, after the finally opened and perfectly passable LSAT scores sitting expectantly on his desk back home, feels less and less concrete every day. He thinks about opening his mouth to say as much. “Hello,” says a polished voice from behind, and they all turn to see Philip, starched and well groomed, striding across the lawn. Alex feels the slight flutter through the air of Henry’s spine automatically straightening beside him. Philip came to Kensington two weeks ago to apologize to both Henry and Bea for the years since their father’s death, the harsh words, the domineeringness, the intense scrutiny. For basically growing from an uptight peoplepleaser into an abusive, self-righteous twat under the pressure of his position and the manipulation of the queen. “He’s fallen out with Gran,” Henry had told Alex over the phone. “That’s the only reason I actually believe anything he says.” Yet, there’s blood that can’t be unshed. Alex wants to throw a punch every time he sees Philip’s stupid face, but it’s Henry’s family, not his, so he doesn’t get to make that call. “Philip,” Bea says coolly. “To what do we owe the pleasure?” “Just had a meeting at Buckingham,” Philip says. The meaning hangs in the air between them: a meeting with the queen because he’s the only one still willing. “Wanted to come by to see if I could help with anything.” He looks down at Bea’s Wellington boots next to his shiny dress shoes in the grass. “You know, you don’t have to be out here—we’ve got plenty of staff that can do the grunt work for you.” “T know,” Bea says haughtily, every inch a princess. “I want to do it.” “Right,” Philip says. “Of course. Well, er. Is there anything I can help with?” “Not really, Philip.” “All right.” Philip clears his throat. “Henry, Alex. Portraits go all right?” Henry blinks, clearly startled Philip would ask. Alex has enough diplomatic instincts to keep his mouth