I will not.
I will not let them see me cry.
I dig my nails into my arms, pushing hard enough to break through and draw a little blood.
The pain is good. The pain is grounding.
They will not break me.
They can keep me like this, keep me locked away like a thing half-forgotten, but I will not break for them. I will not.
The Prime Minister’s office is a study in muted power. Polished oak, the faint scent of beeswax and old paper fills my nostrils while the weight of centuries of tradition and British Empire press down from the oiled portraits on the walls.
I’m leaning forward, my hands steepled, explaining the delicate, fabricated economic implications of a new trade deal to a man technically elected by the people but in reality, we put him in charge. The PM’s brow furrows in the right places as he pulls his spectacles down his face and stares at his notes like he might finally have a grasp on the words he’s written there.
It’s a dance, a performance, and I am its lead actor.
Poor Thomas Granville may be the powerhead for this country, but he does my bidding, he does exactly as I dictate.
“So this Bill…”
“All you need to do is read out the statement I provided.” I cut across him.
There’s no need to complicate things. Simple has always been the best course when it comes to this man. In truth, when it’s come to all of them, all our leaders. Be they Conservative or Liberal, it makes no actual difference because the Brethren continue on, holding all the strings of power either way.
“I’ve prepared a set of answers to any questions you may be asked.” I add. “Stick to the facts. Do not elaborate, and within a week this will be yesterday’s news….”
“And if the press require further explanation?” Gregory,his aide asks.
In my pocket, my phone begins to vibrate. Not a standard call. It’s the specific, insistent pulse I assigned to one man, and one man only. Our Grand Master.
I hold up a single finger, a gesture of apology so smooth it’s almost rehearsed. “A moment of your indulgence, Prime Minister. A matter I’m afraid that cannot wait.”
He nods, a little bemused and I rise, striding from the room with a calmness I do not feel. My security detail falls into step behind me, but I wave them back with a tiny, sharp gesture.
This is not for them.
In the hushed, carpeted hallway flanked by the watchful eyes of long-dead premiers, I bring the phone to my ear.
“Konstantine…” I say, my voice a low, controlled whisper.
What comes back is not the measured, ancient baritone of the Grand Master of the Brethren. It is a raw, ragged thing, stripped of all reason and dignity. It’s the sound of a soul being flayed alive.
“Antonio… Antonio, they… they…”
“Breathe, Konstantine,” I command, dropping my voice even lower while my own pulse begins to hammer a counter-rhythm against my ribs. “Calm yourself. Speak clearly.”
He sucks in a wet, shuddering gasp. “They desecrated her tomb. They broke the marble, scattered the flowers, they destroyed it all…”
I shut my eyes. The world, the polished hallway, the distant murmur of London traffic, the weight of the British government waiting for me in the next room narrows to a single, burning point of fury.Ines.Of course. It is the only thing that could reduce the most powerful man in the world to this babbling, broken state.
And I know with a cold, absolute certainty, who ‘they’ are.
It’s been two months since Ines’s murder. Two months of me managing everything, handling not only my own workload but all things necessary to continue the mirage that our Grand Master is alive and well, and still completely compos mentis.
But the truth is far more damaging. The truth that no one but me is aware of is that Konstantine right now is a raving lunatic. His mind is lost, his grief has taken over everything, and he can barely function most days. If the Brethren realise that their leader is this unwell, there would be war. There would be chaos.
I rub my temples, soothing the fleeting feeling of panic that creeps in. I am in control, I am always in control. And no one will find out, because I can and I am managing everything.
