“You have eyes on him,” I say, inching the frozen peas away from my mouth. “You must, if you know he left.”
Guy dabs the paper towel against my lip with surprising care, and only when he’s finished does he drop the bloody towel in the trash bin and pull out his mobile. “Courtesy of theRegal Record,” he says, showing me the screen. I only have enough time to think that of course Ben has a hand in this—he has a hand in everything—before a video starts to play.
It’s of the sidewalk outside the Flea and Hound, right on the precipice of twilight, with two girls announcing that ‘Lord Christopher’ is inside and debating whether to try to coax him into a threesome. Before they can make a decision, the door bursts open, and Kit tears past them with at least three PPOs on his tail, and the girls watch, their mouths hanging open and the camera fumbling as they try to capture his getaway.
They only manage to catch the very end of it, as he ignores the car waiting for him at the curb and takes the corner at asprint instead. Frowning, I replay the video. There’s no sign of blood anywhere, and the other bystanders don’t seem alarmed or startled by anything beyond Kit’s sudden appearance. So why is he—
The answer hits me like a punch to the gut, and for a split second, I can’t breathe.
He knows I went after him. Or that I did something reckless, at the very least, and by now he knows I’m missing. And he is terrified.
“That was the last anyone’s seen of him in public,” says Guy as he returns his mobile to his pocket. “He was never the target, Evangeline.”
Because I am. I have been from the start, and suddenly I understand why Singh has kept me under lock and key, hidden from our predators while Kit’s been free to roam. He knew. Somehow, he understands Guy better than any of us.
“Why am I here?” I say, returning the peas to my jaw. It’s growing more and more painful to speak, and I need the swelling to go down.
“Funny,” says Guy, and he gestures for me to sit. “I’d like to ask you the very same question. Whyareyou here? In Oxford, with Lord Clarence?”
I ease down into the leather chair. The laptop is still open, the desktop still bright, and there are plenty of folders and files on display—bait, no doubt. But I refocus on Guy and reach for a strange little puzzle box near the laptop instead, fiddling one-handed with its sliding pieces.
“I don’t know if you read the news,” I say, moving my jawas little as possible, “butLord Clarenceand I’ve been dating for a while. Sometimes we visit each other. Wild concept, I know.”
Guy’s mouth twitches. “According to the media, you’re supposed to be in America right now, with your head buried in thesand.”
“I’d be pretty bad at hiding if everyone knew where I was,” I say, toying with the box. The pieces don’t fit together the way I expect them to, and I turn it over in my hand, trying again from a different angle.
Guy stares at me as if he can see right through my caginess, but I ignore him, focusing on the puzzle. The more I try to open it, the less it all makes sense, and I sigh, setting it back on thedesk.
“What’s your name?” I blurt. “Your real name. None of this ‘Guy Fawkes’ shit.”
He tilts his head. “Out of all the questions you could ask me, that’s what you want to know?”
“I’m just getting started.”
He considers me for a moment longer, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. “John.”
I snort. “I know John Johnson is an alias for Guy Fawkes. Try again.”
“I didn’t say John Johnson,” he says. “Just John. Why do you prefer Evan to Evangeline?”
This takes me a moment to process—not the question itself, but the implication behind it. No one outside of my immediate circle calls me Evan in the UK. The media refers to me by plenty of nicknames—some more creative than others—butEvanhasnever been one of them. “BecauseEvangelinesounds pretentious. Did Kit tell you that?” I say, even though I know he didn’t. Kit, more than anyone else, is extremely careful with how he refers to me in public, even to his supposed friends.
“Let’s just say you and I have a mutual acquaintance,” says Guy, and my breath catches in my lungs.
Ben.
“Do we?” I say with careful neutrality. “I didn’t realize we ran in the same circles.”
A faint smile crosses his lips, and as he drums his fingers against his elbow, I notice a gold signet ring on his pinky—the kind of ring that only nobility and their spawn seem to wear in the UK. The kind of ring Kit wears. The kind of ring my father and uncle wear. And definitely not a piece of jewelry a violent terrorist would wear simply out of habit.
I must stare a split second too long, because he slips his fingers behind his arm, hiding the ring from view. “I’ve always wondered how you and Lord Clarence ended up together. The king’s daughter with a vocal republican. I certainly didn’t have you pegged as an antimonarchist.”
“You mustreallynot pay attention to the news, then,” I say with as much amusement as I can muster. “According to the media, I’m practically the face of the ABR.”
Now that I’ve broached the topic, his expression returns to neutral, and he studies me with an intensity that makes me want to look away. “And are you?” he says, quieter now. “The face of the ABR?”
“Have you seen me on any posters lately?” I toy with the hem of Kit’s cardigan, and when a loose thread starts to unravel, I idlywrap the yarn around my finger. “I don’t like the monarchy. I think it’s outdated, classist, obscene, and offers nothing of real value to anyone—either the people forced to live it or the people consuming it like it’s reality TV. It’s tradition for tradition’s sake, and with the funds it takes to keep it going, we could probably solve homelessness and food poverty in a matter of months.”
