“You’re late.”
I whirl around and bite back a curse. Lady Tabitha Finch-Parker-Covington-Boyle stands directly behind me, her designer coat belted at the waist and her black pixie cut hidden by a hat with a sparkly pom-pom. Her expression is dangerously neutral, and she holds two thermoses of what I suspect is coffee.
“Did you not see the paparazzo following me?” I say, glancing once more into the tunnel. Part of me expects him to double back, but he’s gone now, disappeared onto the busy road. “I thought he—you know.”
“Recognized you?” Tibby raises a single perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Did he?”
I shake my head. “Pretty sure he thinks I’m Australian. Is one of those for me?”
She offers me a thermos with a sniff, and I take it gratefully as we make our way to a nearby bench. English winters have nothing on the icy air in Vermont, or Michigan, or any of the other states where I spent almost seven years of my life being expelled from various boarding schools. But it’s perpetually damp here in a way that seeps into my bones, and I’ve all but forgotten what it feels like to be warm and dry.
As Tibby and I sit side by side, a nearby clock tower starts to chime. Kit’s final lecture of the day is letting out, and by now the paparazzo who returned my keys has undoubtedly rejoined the other so-called photographers, camera at the ready. But just like yesterday—just like every day these past weeks—Kit will take their shouts and insults and leading questions on the chin without comment, his silence the only answer guaranteed to leave them frustrated. Anything else—a smirk, a wink, or evena glance in the wrong direction—and they’ll happily turn it into a scathing headline. Which will only bring more vultures to the perch for tomorrow’s encore.
A pang of guilt cuts through me, and I disguise my grimace with a sip of mocha from the thermos. Kit’s here in Oxford because of me. He’s enduring their abuse—the abuse of the entire world—so I don’t have to do this alone. And I will never, ever be able to repay him.
“We haven’t got much time,” says Tibby, and her tone makes it clear that she blames me entirely. “Have you made any progress?”
“You know I can’t tell you that,” I say, and she gives me a withering look. Technically this is true—Tibby isn’t part of this operation, and she has no business knowing what’s going on. But she somehow has all the details anyway, and I sigh. “I completed my cybersecurity course.”
“Wasn’t that supposed to take you two months?” she says, and I shrug.
“I don’t exactly have much to keep me busy right now. Might as well learn how to hack properly.”
“Inspiring,” deadpans Tibby. “And Kit? Is he also learning how to lead a life of crime?”
I shake my head. There’s no use explaining to Tibby the difference between a white hat and a black hat hacker, or any of the colors in between. “He’s trying to reestablish his connections to Fox Rex, but he’s worried they don’t trust him anymore.”
Tibby’s expression flickers with barely disguised disapproval. “Have you considered the possibility that they might bring him back into the fold, only to silence him for good?”
Suddenly the temperature in the courtyard seems to droptwenty degrees. “That won’t happen. He has his own security team, and Fox Rex isn’t the problem—”
“Fox Rex feeds directly into the ABR,” says Tibby. “They may fancy themselves a secret society, but they’re terrorists in training, and you know it.”
I grip my thermos tighter. “Theydon’t, though. There’s no evidence that any of the members of Fox Rex know they’re connected to the ABR—”
“And what if it isn’t Fox Rex that comes knocking?” says Tibby. “What if the ABR and thisGuy Fawkesarsehole go after him instead? What if—”
“Would you please juststop?” I snap. “I know you and Jenkins don’t want us here, but Kit and I have a real chance at finding the list—”
“You mean the list that may or may not even exist?” says Tibby, and I huff.
“Aoife Marsh said that Guy brags about their former members all the time. Doctors, lawyers, members of Parliament, nobility—even people working inside the palace. And MI5 is sure that means he has a list somewhere. Aoife agrees, and she hasn’t steered us wrong yet.”
“You are, as always, an excellent judge of character,” mutters Tibby before taking a long drink. “And what happens when you find this supposed list?”
“Then MI5 will know who to investigate,” I say stubbornly. “They’ll know everyone who could possibly be associated with the ABR, and everyone who might’ve been involved in the bombing—”
“But you do realize Ben won’t be on it, yes?”
I blink. “Of course he won’t. He doesn’t even go to Oxford—”
“So you’re doing this out of the goodness of your own heart, then?” she says. “You’re risking your life—you’re riskingKit’slife—to simply give MI5 a hand?”
Our eyes meet, and I grit my teeth. “If the ABR finds out that MI5 knows about their connection to Fox Rex, they’ll burn any evidence, including—”
“That list of names. Yes, I’m aware,” says Tibby.
“And…any proof that Ben’s involved in the ABR, too,” I mutter. Because she’s right. I’m not just here for that list. And I can’t go home—wherever that is these days—until I’ve done everything I can to make sure the monster trying to kill my family pays for it.
