“Bad. She’s hurting. Her dad, the rumours…”
“About me?”
“Yes. That you were involved in Lennox’s death.”
“That’s not true.”
“I know.”
There’s a moment of silence before he speaks again. “Thank you for believing it. In me.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Because I couldn’t stay.”
“Did you kill your sister?”
I look at his eyes and see them darken.
“Yes. Just my sister. Only her and her lies. All of them. She lied about being pregnant.”
There’s no more to ask. Not about that. Not now.
“Tell me about Blair.”
I talk him through William and Elise and Paden and everything else that’s happened. Rumours of abdications that are just rumours; her unhappiness that isn’t a rumour. He looks pained and I can feel his guilt.
“Are you going to tell her where I am?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. Not until we know who’s leaking the information.”
“I gave them the info about Maighread’s birthday.”
“And then you shot them.” I hold him more than he’s holding me because he killed his sister.
“I had to. I left the night it was planned. Then it wasn’t her who was meant to be in on the attack. I think she drew the short straw because I’d gone.”
“She thought you were dead.”
“She was meant to.”
He doesn’t want to talk any more so we don’t. We head to his makeshift bed on a worn mattress in the corner of the cabin and use a moth-eaten blanket and each other to keep warm.
It isn’t an ending, but part of my soul is returned.
Chapter Twelve
The summons isn’t unexpected.
I’ve injured my brother, resigned from his board of advisors and just about not neglected my constituents. He lost his by-election. I won mine.
Worst of all, I’ve ignored my father and more than anything, he detests his calls and messages being disregarded, especially when it comes to me because William wouldn’t dare.
I’m not here because I have to be. Those words have never washed clean with me. Today is because I need answers myself. William hasn’t reached out. He’s earned a stay of execution from his position in the cabinet while his enemies configure in cloakrooms about how to end his term in office.
I don’t knock on the door to my father’s office. I just enter, presenting myself like the good son I’m not.
He turns round on his chair, the room empty apart from him and doesn’t smile or nod or acknowledge the fact I’m there apart from his stare.
