Beep! Beep!My second alarm goes off. It’s ten fifteen. Crud. I’ve wasted fifteen minutes. I need to leave right this very moment. There’s no telling if the Tube is going to be on time this morning.
Rushing down Whitehall a half hour later, I wander through the inner courtyard as the black stable doors open.
“Stand back behind the second white line please, the horses are coming out,” an officer shouts.
Tourists whip their phones out and record the six horses and six scarlet-cloaked soldiers riding out to the back yard. The moment the courtyard is clear, and everyone is free to move about, they rush through the tunnel, following the horses.
“Pff... they never realize the best part of the changeover takes place over here. All the visitors will catch back there are the horses standing stock still for an hour,” the same officer remarks.
“The smart ones will figure it out sooner or later, Ian.”
I stop, recognizing the name. The MOD police officer looks like he’s about the same height as the guy who assisted me, but his face is obscured with a face mask. I don’t blame him, it’s freezing cold today. Yet another reason I hope I run into Sam. I want to get these silk thermals to him.
“Hello.” I walk up and wave. “Nice to see you again.”
He studies me for a moment. “Minerva?”
“That’s me.”
“I hope you’ll keep an eye on your bag today.”
I swivel my new lavender handbag from my hip to my front. “Uh-huh. You can count on it. I’ve even upgraded to an anti-theft model. This one is supposedly pickpocket proof and slash proof.”
“Good to hear.”
“Did the Met officers call you with any news?”
“No. I’m due to check in with them after three.”
“Well, let’s keep our fingers crossed for good news,” Ian says. “What brings you by Horse Guards today? Are you waiting for a certain soldier?”
My face warms. “Yes,” I admit.
“If it’s Trooper Baker you’re waiting on, I doubt his squadron will be in today.”
“Oh.” I lift my chin.
“Squadron A likely won’t return for three shifts.” The muscles in my forehead tense. Noticing my confusion, Ian takes pity on me and explains, “Each regiment is divided into one of four squadrons. The Life Guards who were on duty this weekend are part of Squadron C. The Blues squadron they replaced on Friday were the A group. So I wager it’ll be the B squad entering today, but you never know, sometimes things change.”
My eyes widen. “That makes sense.”
Why is it when I’m around Sam, my brain turns to mush, and I forget to use plain logic? Of course there would be other soldiers to rotate through working here.
Ian glances at his watch. “Either way, you’ll have your answer in about five minutes.”
Disappointed, I thank him, then slowly wander out the tunnel to the back. Checking my phone’s home screen, all I’m greeted by is a photo of an Impressionist painting. There is no message from Sam.
I take a wide route, walking around the assembled tourists. In the middle, like a circus ring, the Life Guards who rode out a few minutes ago are in a neat line. Two horses are throwing their heads, and their bridle chains jingle.
In the distance, two yellow-and-red-striped police cars turn off the street and onto the sand. I stop to watch. Behind them is a mounted Met officer riding a dappled gray horse, followed by two lines of Blues soldiers. Their gold helmets glisten in the morning sun. Just as the lead horse enters the ring, the clock on the bell tower chimes eleven times.
The Blues’ horses walk in a semi-circle and re-form into one line. The lead rider gently pulls the reins of his horse, rides up to the Life Guards’ lead rider, and exchanges a few words.
A minute later, a powerful voice bellow, “Troopers, to your post.”
Five horses advance forward and turn left to ride through the tunnel. This part of the ceremony, I’ve seen a few times. Both the remaining Life Guards’ and Blues’ horses will stand out here until the remainder of the Life Guards join them. Just as Ian was saying earlier, there isn’tmuch to see. All the noteworthy action takes place behind closed doors.
I have no idea if Sam is here. I didn’t get a good look at any of the soldiers’ faces. From where I’m standing, they appear nearly identical with their helmets and matching cloaks. Taking my leave, I cut across kitty corner to where the Blues’ relief came from. The drivers of the police cars are out, chatting with the two officers on horseback.
