—
I burst intothe familiar courtyard less than fifteen minutes later, my pulse racing and my oversized scarf unwinding from my neck, trailing after me in the dingy slush. Tibby is waiting on a bench with two thermoses, looking completely unbothered, and I’m so taken aback that I glance around, like there might be a second Tibby I’m missing who’s tearing her own hair out with worry.
“What’s wrong?” I blurt, hurrying toward her. “Is Alexander—is he—”
“Good afternoon to you, too,” she says, offering me one of the thermoses. I take it, but only because it’s blocking my view of her face.
“What’s going on?” I press. “Why did you text me 9-9-9?”
She definitely doesn’t look like she’s had to rearrange her day for some kind of emergency, and she takes a sip of her drink before answering. “I thought you’d like to know that His Majesty is waking up.”
My stomach does a strange somersault. “He is?” On one hand, this is what we’ve all been waiting and hoping for—for my father to finally regain consciousness after nearly dying in the bombing several weeks ago. On the other, as much as I even hate myself for thinking it…
“He is,” says Tibby curtly. “Jenkins expects him to start asking about you in short order, and as soon as he does—”
“Jenkins will tell him the truth.” Which means that our days in Oxford are numbered. I close my eyes and take a deep, steadying breath. “How is he? Can he speak? Does he recognize anyone? Are his eyes open? Has he had any more surgeries—”
Tibby sniffs. “I am not privy to His Majesty’s medical status, nor should I be, considering I am not family.”
“What is family, if not fifth or sixth cousins descended from one of the most inbred lines in Europe?” I say, and Tibby gives me a look that would make a mountain shudder. I, on the other hand, am immune. “Is that all? Because I need to get back—”
“To what, precisely?” says Tibby, eyebrow raised. “Have they finally given you something useful to do?”
I open and shut my mouth. “You know I can’t talk about it.”
“Of course not,” she says in a tone that makes it clear she’s humoring me. “Are you certain you’re here to actually serve a purpose, or is it possible you’re more like a team mascot?”
Her words sting like a slap to the face, and I have to bite my lip to keep from saying something I’ll regret. “I’m here because I have to be. That’s all you’re allowed to know.”
“Mm, of course,” says Tibby, taking another sip from her thermos. “Do let me know when this is all declassified, will you? I’m very much looking forward to learning which Netflix series you’re watching amidst…whatever it is you and Kit are supposedly doing.”
I clench my jaw. “Tell Jenkins to delay for as long as he can. Please,” I say tightly, and that’s all I leave her with before I storm to the courtyard exit.
As soon as I’m on the other side of the stone tunnel, I slip into the crowd of students making their way to and from their afternoon lectures—which Kit decided to skip, no doubt to the disappointment of the paparazzi gathered to chronicle his daily walk of shame—and start back toward our flat building, ignoring the three personal protection officers tailing my every move.Before I can take more than a few steps, however, goose bumps appear on my arms, and a prickling sensation spreads across my flushing skin, as if I’ve stuck a fork in an electrical socket.
Someone’s watching me. Someone who isn’t supposed to know I’m here.
I suppress the instinct to peek over my shoulder and tip off my voyeur. Instead, I use the windows and storefronts I pass to get a good look at my surroundings, and it’s only when I pause to supposedly admire a display of books about Oxford’s history do I spot a flash of a familiar teal scarf and maleficent stare.
The man who was protesting the monarchy outside of Sandringham at Christmas.
The man who was watching during the stampede outside the hospital when my sister and I were almost trampled.
The man who stood in the crowd of the Modern Music Museum opening, minutes before the bomb went off, watching me like he knew I wouldn’t walk out of that building. Because hedid.
Guy Fawkes. The leader of Fox Rex and the Army of the British Republic. The so-called mastermind behind the attack that murdered eight people and nearly assassinated my father. The terrorist who, along with Dylan, tried to kill me for over a month, only to publicly claim me as one of them so the entire world hates me as much as they do.
He’s following me.
This time, I can’t stop myself from whirling around, my heart pounding as I search the sidewalk opposite me. He was there—right between two groups of students, one clutching cups of coffee and the other laughing so loudly I can hear them over the traffic.
But he isn’t anymore. He’s gone.
I’m imagining things. I have to be. Fox Rex and the ABR have no idea where Kit and I live, so there’s no way they could’ve followed me from the flat. And the chances of Guy or Dylan finding me in a city like Oxford, especially when there’s nothing to differentiate me from the thousands of students wandering around—it’s impossible. I’m being paranoid.
Taking a deep breath, I slow my pace to something leisurely and pretend I’m window-shopping. Books on the history of Oxford, handmade toys, colorful desserts that look like art—they’re all suddenly fascinating to me as I use every reflection and break in the crowd to watch for Guy Fawkes, until—
He’s there again, another flash of teal on the corner. And this time, when I look, he’s staring directly at me, his features almost completely obscured by his telltale scarf. Except for those dark, gold-rimmed eyes I’d recognize anywhere.
