I snap open my laptop again and stream the evening news.
“Another night of violent clashes in France between protesters and riot police,” the anchor says.
Behind him, the footage shows broken shop windows, people running, and clouds of tear gas.
“The unrest stems from worsening interethnic tensions, compounded by an economy in free fall,” the anchor comments. “With debt levels at historic highs and confiscatory taxes stifling recovery, the country is trapped in a vicious cycle.”
I sip water and watch the flames of a burning car leap across the screen.
The anchor shakes his head. “And yet, the French keep reelecting the same politicians. Why? It remains a great mystery to any Evorian observer.”
A tight huff escapes me.True enough.
The anchor’s tone shifts. “In brighter news, the palace has released footage of Princess Felicia promenading with a walker in the gardens of the Château des Neiges. Doctors report optimism about her recovery.”
I watch the footage in question, then shut my laptop.
Have her visions returned?I wonder.
Can she still guide the seekers toward the last two keys before the looming deadline? If she can, will the Impenetrable Vault yield the authentic addendum to the Treaty of Pombrio? Will that addendum be free of the sunset clause, as we hope?
That’s a lot of ifs.
Logic and reason tell me it doesn’t look good for Mount Evor. Not enough time. Too much stacked against us. The likeliest scenario is the principality being carved up among France, Italy, and Switzerland come January 1.
The most rational thing is to stop clinging to hope and look reality in the eye. It’s time for the royals to go public, letting people grieve and brace for change, none of it good.
I pour myself a whisky. The liquid shines amber under the light of my desk lamp. I swirl the glass once before taking a measured sip.
My composure is back,I tell myself. My balance, too. As well as reason.
Then a flashback ruins everything.
Eva’s face yesterday. Pale, tense, and breaking apart when she spoke. The way her voice frayed when she said “Geoffroy killed him.”
I shut my eyes. I can still see the defeated slump of her shoulders when I walked away.
The whisky burns down my throat.
I left because I needed air, needed to be alone. The emotions overwhelmed me. But here’s the thing. I’m not angry. It’s both unfair and irrational to be mad at her for planning to keep the truth buried. Because she didn’t, in the end. She told me. And she did so entirely of her own accord. There was no pressure. I had no leverage. No coaxing was involved.
Shechoseto tell me.
I take another slow sip.
So, can I forgive her?
That’s a dumb question—I already have.
I hold the glass up and stare into it, pondering a much harder question.
Can we be together?
I lower the glass.
I don’t have an answer to that.
A knock on the door makes me freeze halfway through lifting the glass again. No one knocks at this hour. Derek would’ve called first.
