I blink. “But Ben—”
“He said no, Evie,” says my mother, sandwiching my father’s hand between hers. “And I say no, too.”
I look back and forth between them, stunned. “But—you don’t understand. I’m close—I’msoclose, and if Guy thinks he can trust me—if I can give him something Ben can’t—”
Jenkins clears his throat. “It is, in any regard, a moot point. According to Victor Stephens, MI5 has spent the past eight hours coordinating with local law enforcement across the United Kingdom to make a series of simultaneous arrests targeting those they believe to be involved with both Fox Rex and the Army of the British Republic. It seems they intend to carry out those arreststoday.”
An icicle of dread pierces my chest. “What?But—why now? Why aren’t they waiting for the real list?”
Jenkins glances behind me. No, not behind me—just above me to where Kit stands, his grip on my waist weakening with every passing heartbeat. “It is my understanding,” says Jenkins slowly, “that they did in fact have this supposed list of former Fox Rex members in their possession.”
My confusion burns away into agonizing clarity, and I crane my neck to look at Kit, who yet again won’t meet my eye.
“I had to,” he says simply. “It was too big of a risk to leave it.”
Maybe this is true. Maybe, if circumstances were different, I’d even agree with him. But as it is, all I can feel is the boiling fury of betrayal and the pain of having the trust we’ve so carefully stitched together ripped out without a single care for what’s left behind.
“You should’ve told me,” I say, with steadiness I don’t feel. Kit doesn’t argue, and instead he lets go of my waist and takes half a step back, leaving the cold to sneak in where his warmth was seconds ago.
Alexander has questions—some of them articulate, others that no one, not even my mom, can fully make sense of. But after only ten minutes of this, the last of his energy wanes, and the nurse shoos all of us out, with the exception of my mother. I kiss his forehead as he falls asleep, his entire body seeming to sag with the weight of all we’ve put on his shoulders.
Kit and I leave the room side by side, though we’re not touching. Jenkins remains behind in the sitting room, and while Tibby is waiting for us in the antechamber, she says nothing as we takea different exit, through a wing of the castle that looks like it hasn’t been properly lived in for decades.
“I won’t ask how he is,” says Tibby at last, “but let it be known that you’re both scaring me right now, and that’s not an easy thing to do.”
I exhale. “Alexander’s awake,” I say apologetically. “And speaking, sort of.”
Her eyes shut in relief for two quick strides. “Good. State funerals are depressing affairs.” But when she glances at Kit and me, I can still feel the question in her gaze. Why don’t we look happy?
As Tibby leads us through the corridors, I replay Kit’s confession in my mind again and again, and fury and frustration glow within me like hot coals, growing more unbearable with each footstep. And by the time we reach our guest room, I want to swear. I want toscream.But as I pull open the door to the living area, ready to ask for a moment alone with Kit, I come face to face with a tall, willowy girl with red-blond hair who looks every bit as furious as I am.
My half sister and heir to the throne, Maisie.
She’s dressed in muddy riding gear, and her freckled face is pink from the cold. Still, not a single hair is out of place in her French braid, and her makeup looks pristine as she clutches her phone, her mouth set in a thin line.
“Maisie,” I say, my spine stiffening. “We just saw Alexander. I thought—”
“What, that he was dead?” she says casually. “Maybe if you were both around more, you wouldn’t be so shocked.”
I stare at her, stunned, and her blue eyes flicker over me briefly before she focuses on something over my shoulder.
“I thought you, at least, would’ve known better,” she says, contempt dripping from her voice, and I can practically hear Kit grimace.
“Mais, I’m sorry we couldn’t tell you—”
“Oh, of course not,” she says airily. “I’m only the heir to the throne. It’s none ofmybusiness if my cousin and meddlesome half sister run off and chase terrorists for fun while the rest of us are stuck in Scotland. The entire world knows now, by the way. Or they will soon enough.”
Before I can put any of the dozen questions suddenly crowding my mind into words, Maisie taps her phone and shoves it in my face, and the polished, steady voice of an anchorwoman plays on full volume.
“…breaking news this hour as MI5 has announced the arrest of the terrorist known as Guy Fawkes, the supposed head of the Army of the British Republic.”
The clip that follows shows Guy being hauled out the front door of a house in what must be Oxford, his forgettable face neutral and his gold-ringed eyes fixed straight ahead. And while I only catch a glimpse of the arresting officer, I immediately recognize Singh’s profile.
“This is your doing, I suppose?” says Maisie, and I take her phone from her, my hands shaking.
Holy shit.
“Yes,” admits Kit behind me, while Tibby leans in to catch a glimpse of the broadcast. “And we will explain everything as soon as we’re settled in—”
