“Turns out, I’ve been doing damn stupid things for the last five months.” I step out through the door. “Why stop now?”

I put on my own clothes after my shower—my real clothes—worn gray sweatpants and a white V-neck T-shirt. I don’t dry my hair, but twist it up into a bun, wet, on top of my head. My eyes feel puffy and swollen and probably look even worse. I drag my suitcases out from the closet and start packing—being sure to leave every single piece of clothing Sabine, the stylist, brought for me. They already think I’m a gold digger; I’ll be damned if I give them any more ammunition.

When I’m done, I mean to walk down to the travel secretary’s office, to get a car to the airport and a ticket home. But my legs have other ideas.

They bring me through the bookcase to Nicholas’s room.

It’s silent in that way you can feel there’s no one in it. I see a glass of scotch on the table. I touch it with my fingertips—because he touched it. Then I walk over to his bed—that big, beautiful bed. I sink my face into Nicholas’s pillow, deeply inhaling his scent—that amazing man-scent that’s all him—a hint of ocean and spice.

It makes my skin tingle.

It makes my eyes burn. I thought I was all cried out, but I guess not.

With a shuddering breath, I put the pillow back.

“He’s not here, Miss,” Fergus says from the doorway. “He left earlier.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No.”

I walk up to the brittle, sweet man. “You were kind to me the whole time I was here. Thank you for that.”

As I turn to go, his hand falls on my arm. “He’s a good lad—he can be rash at times, but he has his reasons. Let him come to his senses. He loves ye, lass—as the day is long, he loves ye. Don’t rush off just now. Give him a bit more time.”

The Queen’s words echo in my head.

“Time won’t make this better, Fergus.” I lean over and kiss his wrinkled cheek. “Good-bye.”

Jane Stiltonhouse, the travel secretary, is at her desk when I fill her doorway. “I’m ready to go home now.”

She’s surprised at first—and then elated. “Marvelous.”

Jane rises from her chair and slips a folder out from one of the drawers. “I have your first-class ticket to New York ready—courtesy of the Palace, of course. I’ll send two girls to Guthrie House to pack your things.”

“You don’t have to do that. I already packed.”

Her smile reminds me of poisonous fruit—dangerously sweet. “Anything provided by the Palace to you on loan—gowns, jewels, et cetra, et cetra—remains with the Palace.”

“The only thing I planned on taking was the necklace Nicholas gave me.”

She clasps her hands. “Precisely. The necklace must remain here.”

Those words hit me like a subway turnstile jabbing into my stomach.

“But Nicholas designed it for me.”

“Prince Nicholas had the necklace commissioned and he is a member of the royal family, therefore it is the property of the Crown. It stays.”

“He gave it to me.”

One of her pointy, penciled eyebrows rises nastily. “And soon he may give it to someone else. It stays. Are we going to have a problem, Miss Hammond?”

I’d like to show her how we solve problems like her where I come from. But I don’t—because, really, what difference does it make?

“No, Miss Stiltonhouse. There’s no problem.”

And her mouth does a fabulous impression of Bruce the Shark from Finding Nemo.

“Very good. The driver will have your ticket; be sure to bring your passport. Do come visit again—” her condemning gaze combs over my clothes “—if you ever have the means.”

And I can’t leave this place fast enough.

THAT NIGHT, after a lonesome evening spent drinking myself into oblivion in a corner at The Goat, I don’t dream about my mother, like I did the last time I was good and pissed. I dream I’m on a ship—a creaky, wooden pirate ship—with a stunning dark-haired figurehead with perfect, pale breasts. In the middle of a giant storm. Being tossed left and right, until one mighty, surging wave topples the whole thing over—sending me reeling into the sea.

When I crack my head on the hard, wooden floor, I realize I’m not on a ship. And the tossing wasn’t a dream.

It was my little brother.

Tilting the couch I passed out on and spilling my sorry arse onto the bloody floor.

When I’m able to pry my eyes open, I see him standing over me like an angel of morning-after doom—with Simon standing next to him.

“What the fucking fuck, Henry?”

“I told you, you were wrong. I told you Olivia didn’t do it.”

Those words snap me into full, immediate consciousness.

Henry’s eyes dart to Simon. “Tell him.”

Simon looks pale—paler than usual. And not a little bit guilty.

“Tell me what?” I rasp.

He clears his throat. “Yes…well, you see—I’ve begun a new business venture for Barrister’s…”

When he doesn’t continue, I nudge, “And?”

“Pies.”

Maybe I am still dreaming after all.

“Pies?”

“Yes—fresh and flash frozen—they’ll be deliverable to anyplace in the world. We’re going to knock Marie Callenders’ and Sara Lee on their arses. And you know how much I enjoyed the pies at Amelia’s when we were in the States, so…I purchased the recipes from Olivia’s father. All of them.”