“Shit,” I say in an exhale. I know Constance breeds dogs, but I always assumed she skins them alive to make fur coats or something. Not lets them roam around like pets. “What are you…Stop that!”
“Ah, you’re finally awake.”
Tibby appears in the doorway, silhouetted by warm light from the hallway, and I scowl. “How did you find me?”
“Do you really think you don’t have your own personal protection officers here?” she says. “I see you’ve made a friend.”
I sit up and run my fingers through my messy hair, then do the same begrudgingly for the puppy. “Does Constance know she’s missing a dog?”
“Probably,” says Tibby. “Was your bed not to your liking?”
“Didn’t get the chance to try it out. Kit and I had a fight.”
“How unfortunate.” She doesn’t sound the least bit surprised. “When you make up, please keep in mind that the Queen Mother prefers that all unwed couples sleep separately.”
“Not going to be a problem,” I mutter, and pain stabs me unexpectedly. Maybe I’m overreacting—Kit was right, after all. I was being reckless, leaving the list there with only a tracker to lead us back. But that doesn’t change the fact that he still went behind my back and broke my trust without even trying to talk to me first. If I can’t trust him…
But does he even trust me anymore, either?
“What time is it?” I say, mentally sidestepping those quicksand thoughts. The heavy curtains are closed, and it’s impossible to tell if it’s still light out.
“Nearly five o’clock,” she says, checking her phone. “Which iswhy I’m here. You’ve been summoned to a meeting of the Privy Council.”
“The—what?” I say, confused. “Aren’t they all in London?”
Tibby doesn’t answer as she digs through her handbag, and a moment later, she produces a hairbrush and a stick of gum. “If you wouldn’t mind. We’re already late.”
I could refuse to go—I really am exhausted—but given all that’s already happened today with MI5 and the ABR, my curiosity gets the better of me. And after popping the gum in my mouth and running the brush through my hair, I follow Tibby out the door, the puppy trotting happily at my heels.
Minutes later, we reach a sitting room with a table that seats twenty and a cabinet displaying hunting trophies that are undoubtedly older than some American states. Maisie, along with my stepmother, Queen Helene, and my grandmother, the Queen Mother Constance, are seated on one side of the table, and my uncle Nicholas, the Duke of York, stands behind them as they all face an enormous monitor.
“…can’t ignore the public outcry,” insists a red-faced man named Doyle, the royal press secretary, amidst more than two dozen somber individuals all appearing on-screen. “Something must be done now that the relevant arrests have been made—”
“I agree,” says Ben, catching my attention like a white-hot hook. He’s mostly concealed on the other side of Nicholas, but I can tell he’s still wearing that damn black suit. “With photographic evidence out there to prove their involvement, it’s only a matter of time before the public will lose all trust in the monarchyif we don’t launch an official investigation. It doesn’t matter who they are or who they’re related to—”
Someone clears their throat behind me, and only then do I realize Kit has followed us into the room. He stands an unnerving distance away from me, his hands shoved into the pockets of a cardigan and his back ramrod straight.
“I take it you’re talking about the pictures published by theRegal Recordthis afternoon,” he says stiffly, and I look between him and Ben, confused.
“What pictures?” I say, and Ben steps fully into view, looking every bit as polished as he always does.
“The pictures that show you cozying up to the suspect known as Guy Fawkes,” he says, and my stomach drops. The only time I’ve been anywhere near Guy is last night, and there’s only one way Ben managed to get his hands on that camera feed. It’s proof—not anything I can use as evidence, maybe, but it’s stillproof.
“It’s 2024,” I point out. “Pictures can be easily faked.”
Ben smirks. “Is that really the defense you plan on using? The leader of the ABR has already publicly called you out for participating in the bombing and getting him access to our family—”
“If I may interrupt,” says a familiar London accent, and though he doesn’t speak loudly, Singh has the kind of authoritative voice that not even Ben can ignore. Which is probably a good thing, considering I’m only now catching on to something I should’ve realized the moment I discovered Ben and the ABR were working together.
He plans to pin everything he’s done on me.
My insides are in knots as Ben gestures for Singh to go ahead, and the MI5 agent who has potentially ruined my life clears his throat. “Your Majesties. Your Royal Highnesses. Today’s arrests are the direct results of the hard work and courageous action from members of MI5 and local authorities, but also—especially so—from Miss Bright and Lord Clarence.”
Even though the ambient noise was already quiet, the silence becomes oppressive now, like a weighted blanket that’s smothered all the air out of the room. “Pardon?” says Constance, as if she hasn’t quite heard him correctly.
“Miss Evangeline Bright and Lord Clarence, ma’am,” repeats Singh, “were instrumental to our mission in finding individual members of the ABR and tracking them down for questioning and arrest. The pair have spent the past several weeks working undercover in Oxford at our direction and under our protection, and though we cannot yet share all the details of their mission with you, I can tell you, without a doubt, that if it hadn’t been for their willingness to come face to face with the terrorist known as Guy Fawkes—whom they both knew to be behind the bombing—we would be no closer to arrest than we were the day of the attack. They are heroes, ma’am, and I—MI5—this country owes them a deep debt of gratitude.”
All eyes turn toward us now, and my face heats. Even the puppy at my feet licks my ankle, and I bend down to scoop her into the crook of my arm, if only to buy a moment of relief from those stares. And Ben’s menacing glare.
