As we gathered in a small break room for a sip of water before Nick’s speech—out of sight of the reporters trailing us—Nick walked straight past Freddie to the tall blonde in the flowered dress who’d been steering us through the palace with helpful details.

“Annie!” he said, hugging her. “What’s it been—fifteen years? I didn’t know you were going to be here!”

She beamed. “I wasn’t meant to be! But I’m consulting for the facility in Manchester that worked on this, and their regular PR lad got a kidney stone.”

“How’s Shanghai?” he asked.

“Dubai, and it’s lovely, but Artie’s liver is acting up, so we’re home for a bit,” she said.

The two of them slipped into merry, familiar chatter as I stood off to the side, forgotten and craving a Diet Coke.

“Annabelle Farthing,” Freddie said in my ear. “Married to some hopeless old marquess with a huge pile in Somerset. Her father’s friends with Agatha so we knew each other as kids.” He nudged me. “You know that bit in Bridget Jones where she played naked in Colin Firth’s paddling pool? It’s like that.”

“Oh, and how often have you seen that movie?”

Freddie fidgeted. “Well, you know, it’s Marj’s favorite. Ah, they’re ready for us,” he said. “Let’s go play happy families again.”

“Right,” I said to his back. “Happy families.”

So I was already feeling out of sorts when it happened. As we were passing back through the long hallway outside the room where the tapestries lived, I caught sight of something in my periphery and whipped my head around—and felt crushingly sick.

“Are you all right?” Freddie asked, grabbing my elbow.

Nick dropped his conversation with Annabelle and snapped to my side with concern. “You’re green,” he said.

“You were right in Catherine Howard’s path,” Annabelle said, nudging in and guiding me to a window seat ten feet away. “That’s where she was standing when she found out Henry was sending her to the Tower. I don’t really believe in ghosts, but you do hear of people feeling ill here.” She studied me. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen it.”

Nick knelt beside me. “Do you need to lie down?” He looked up at Annabelle. “Could someone get her a glass of water?”

“No, she’s right, I feel much better over here,” I said. But what I couldn’t admit, or even know for sure myself, was that it might not have been Catherine Howard’s lingering psychic devastation that felled me. Because I could have sworn I saw a face as familiar to me as my own shuffling out with the press pack, bent over a notebook, jotting down details with his poison pen. I thought about the prospect—or threat—of Clive showing up at every event I did for the rest of my life, always only a hundred feet away from me and Nick and our fragile happiness. It suddenly felt as if no matter what show we tried to put on, we’d never escape him.