She ended the call. Her hand was shaking. Not with fear. With something else, something that had been building for five days and that was now, for the first time, tilting toward hope. She pressed her forehead against the cool stone of the corridor wall and breathed in and breathed out and let the information settle. A silhouette in a window. A child of approximately eight. Surrey. Latimer's property.We are going in.
She pushed off the wall and opened the door. Five pairs of eyes watched her: Alex's wide and blue and desperate, Vic's fierce, Julia's calculating, Frank's stubborn, Matilda's quiet. Hyzenthlay had stopped sorting her cards and was looking at Erin with those watchful hazel eyes.
"Helena thinks they may have found where Florence is being kept."
Alex pressed her hand over her mouth. Her eyes filled and she blinked the tears back before they could fall, not in front of the children, never in front of the children. But her hand found the arm of the sofa and gripped it and her knuckles went white and the tears pooled along her lower lashes and caught the lamplight.
"When?" she whispered.
“Now.”
The room held its breath. Julia put her phone down for the first time in an hour. Vic stopped pulling at the armchair thread. Even Audrey, beneath the coffee table, lifted her great grey head and looked at Erin with those brown, ancient eyes.
Then Frank said, with the absolute certainty of a boy who had no patience for ambiguity: "Good. About time."
And despite everything, the article, the fury, the fear that had been their constant companion for five days, Erin almost smiled.
13
Everything happened very quickly after Erin's phone call.
One moment they were in the family sitting room with the aftermath of the article still hanging in the air like smoke, and the next Erin was on her feet, her green eyes blazing, saying "They've found her. They think they've found her" with a barely controlled intensity that made everyone in the room stand up simultaneously, as though they'd been pulled by the same string.
"The control room," Erin said. "Now. Everyone."
They moved through the castle in a ragged, urgent group that bore no resemblance to a royal procession. Erin was at the front, walking fast enough that Alexandra had to lengthen her stride to keep up. Julia was behind them, already on her phone. Vic was carrying Matilda on her hip, the girl had been half-asleep on the sofa and was blinking in bewildered alertness, and Frank was running ahead with the frantic energy of a boy who had been waiting for exactly this moment. Hyzenthlay walked beside them with her usual quiet composure, her hazel eyes wide and watchful.
As they crossed the ground-floor corridor toward the control room, Alexandra saw Hyzenthlay reach out and tug gentlyon Erin's sleeve. Erin slowed, looked down. Hyzenthlay said something quietly, too quietly for Alexandra to hear from three steps behind. She watched Erin's face change. Not dramatically. A fractional tightening around the eyes, a flash of attention that sharpened into something harder. Erin nodded once, said something back that was equally inaudible, and kept walking. Hyzenthlay fell back into step beside Julia.
Alexandra filed it away. She'd ask later. Right now the only thing that mattered was the control room and whatever was happening on its screens.
The control room door was open and the space beyond was alive with activity. The monitors that had been cycling through estate footage for days were now showing satellite imagery, road maps, and what appeared to be a live aerial view from a drone. Helena Ward was at the central console in her uniform, her red hair pulled tight, her face flushed with an energy that Alexandra hadn't seen in her before. Two MI5 analysts flanked her, their fingers moving across keyboards, and Director Graves was on the wall screen from London, his tie straightened for once.
Helena looked up when they entered. Her expression cycled rapidly through surprise, concern, and professional resignation as she took in the sight of the Queen, the Queen's wife, the press secretary, the best friend, and three eight-year-olds filing into a classified security operation.
"Your Majesty, I wasn't expecting?—"
"You have a location," Erin cut in. She was at the table now, leaning over a printed map that had been spread across its surface, red marks circling a point in Surrey. "Show me."
Helena glanced at the children, then at Julia, who gave a small nod that saidthey're here, work around it.Helena straightened and addressed the room.
"At approximately seventeen hundred hours today, our surveillance team confirmed visual evidence of a child at aproperty in Surrey. The property is Latimer Hall, a country house owned by Lord Latimer, James Latimer, Baron Latimer. The evidence, combined with the phone records, the financial trail, and Lord Latimer's established connection to Prince Arthur, gives us high confidence that this is Florence's location."
Alexandra's heart was hammering. Her mouth was dry. She gripped the edge of the table and stared at the map, at the red circle around a house she'd never been to, a place she'd never heard of until this week, where her daughter had been kept for five days by people she'd never met on the orders of people she'd known her entire life.
"Lord Latimer," she said. Her voice came out steady, which was a miracle. "I know the name. He was at Father's funeral. Old man with a walking stick and a wife who wore too much perfume. He sent a wreath when the triplets were born. White roses, very traditional. I think I wrote him a thank-you note."
The thought that she'd written a polite note to a man who was now holding her daughter was so grotesque that she had to grip the table edge tighter to keep her face neutral.
"That's him," Helena confirmed. "Baron Latimer. Eighty-one years old. The wife, Lady Latimer, died eight years ago. He lives alone now with a small household staff. His connection to Prince Arthur goes back decades. They were at school together, they share club memberships, they shoot together at Arthur's estate in Norfolk. Our surveillance shows minimal security at the property: two individuals, possibly private, no evidence of professional protection teams. The house is isolated but not fortified."
One of the MI5 analysts, a woman with close-cropped dark hair and the alert, coiled posture of someone trained for fieldwork, stepped forward. She had the kind of face that gave nothing away: composed, professional, eyes that had seen things that most people would prefer not to imagine. She addressedher remarks to Erin and Helena, but she was speaking loudly enough for the room to hear.
"We've been monitoring the property from multiple positions. Three observation teams in rotation. We've identified routine patterns: staff movements, vehicle arrivals, lights-on/lights-off schedules. A woman, possibly a governess or carer, enters and exits a ground-floor room at regular intervals carrying trays. The curtains on the first-floor rear bedroom have been drawn continuously, which is unusual for an occupied house in summer. But at eighteen-twelve today, the curtains were opened briefly and we captured visual confirmation of a child standing at the window. The silhouette is consistent with Princess Florence. She appeared to be looking out at the grounds."
Looking out at the grounds. Alexandra's vision blurred. Florence at a window, looking out at a garden that wasn't hers, at a sky she shouldn't be under, waiting for someone to come.
"It's Florence," Frank said from behind them. His voice was absolute, admitting no doubt. "It's definitely Florence."
