—Transcript of the prime minister’s speech addressing the arrests of the suspected ABR terrorists, 3 February 2024
Kit sleeps in his ownroom that night, an arrangement I’m trying to pretend was my idea, and I only have my toe-licker for company as I turn restlessly over and over again, struggling to convince myself that the world as I know it hasn’t ended.
I don’t have a clue what will happen now that we’ve givenSingh and Doyle the green light to go public with what we were really doing in Oxford. The least-terrifying scenario I can come up with is that no one really cares—that the public is so busy with their own lives that they simply accept MI5’s word for it, agree that Kit and I aren’t terrorists, and move on to the next great scandal.
The worst scenarios, however, are too numerous to list. Pitchforks. Protests. Prison. My head on a stake. Kit’s head on a stake. Just because the palace declares us innocent doesn’t make us so in the eyes of the public, after all, and what proof do we really have except our word? And while Kit’s may still be worth something, mine has long expired.
Tibby drops the bomb on me at breakfast. “The prime minister gave a speech twenty minutes ago, thanking both you and Kit,” she says as I feed bits of egg to the puppy. “It’s already making headlines around the world.”
“Great,” I mutter as the puppy rolls on the carpet, begging for belly rubs. I reluctantly give in, but only because it means I have an excuse to avoid my plate. “Do you think anyone will actually believe him?”
“Does it matter? It’s the truth. The opinions of others are like…like farts,” she says, and I do a double take. “They’re occasionally smelly enough to notice, but they always disappear into the ether eventually.”
I grope around for my phone, only to remember that I no longer have one. “I’m going to need you to repeat that as soon as I have another mobile,” I say. “Becausethatis going to be my ringtone for the rest of my life.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, though I swear she cracks a smirk. “Now come. You’re nearly late for a meeting with the crisis management team we’ve looped in from London.”
This is the first I’m hearing about it, but I’m so exhausted and anxious to see Kit that I don’t argue. Every part of me misses him, and even with the toe-licker curled up beside me all night, it still felt wrong to be without him in a way I can’t put into words.
The puppy follows us through the maze of corridors until we reach a sunny dayroom, complete with a lit fireplace and blue-velvet sofas, with no plaid or dead carcasses in sight. Kit sits at a table facing another oversized monitor, and the natural light emphasizes the deep shadows beneath his eyes. He clearly didn’t get much sleep, either.
“Hi,” I say hesitantly, not sure where to sit. He rises and pulls out the chair beside him, and my heart stutters before my brain sternly reminds it that this is who Kit is—polite and chivalrous to a fault. He’d do the same for a stranger, and reading any kind of intention into this is just one more way for me to silently torture myself.
“Good morning,” he says as I join him, and though there’s an awkward pause, he kisses my cheek before I take a seat. Apparently the torture’s going to happen whether I like it or not. “I see your new friend is back.”
It takes me a beat to realize he means the puppy, who is now happily chewing on the heel of my slipper. “I don’t think Constance has noticed she’s missing yet.”
“She must’ve seen you two together yesterday,” says Kit,reaching down to scratch the puppy behind the ears. “Maybe she knows you’ll take good care of her.”
Doubtful, but I keep my thoughts to myself. Instead, even though Tibby is standing near the door, tapping furiously into her mobile, I say, “I missed you last night.”
Kit’s hand stills. “I missed you, too,” he says, quieter now as he leans in toward me. “Constance is…very particular when it comes to sharing rooms, and I thought you wanted time to yourself, after…”
“I thought I did, too,” I admit. “But I want to talk and—and figure this out. I just…I need tounderstandwhy you didn’t tell—”
“Good morning!”
A chipper voice with a posh accent breaks through our conversation, and Kit and I both jerk upright like we’ve been caught making out. On the screen is a stunningly beautiful twentysomething woman with glossy chestnut hair, piercing hazel eyes, and a smattering of freckles so perfectly placed on her heart-shaped face that they look like a work of art, and suddenly I wish I’d bothered to put on some mascara. But there’s something about her that’s familiar, too, and I frown, trying to place her.
“Astrid?” says Kit, his mouth dropping open. “Is that reallyyou?”
The woman—Astrid—beams. “Who else?” she says, making a “ta-da” motion with her hands. “I was hoping no one would tell you. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
Kit laughs—a lighthearted chuckle I haven’t heard from himin weeks. “It’s you, then? The fixer from London? I should’ve bloody known.”
“When you need the best, you hire the best,” says Astrid, and she winks. “Oh—how terribly rude of me. Evangeline, my name is Astrid Clark, and I’m an old friend of Kit and Liam’s. I’m also a partner in the crisis management firm Tucker and Clark—”
“The youngest person to ever make partner in the firm,” says Kit pointedly, and she fans her face like she’s blushing.
“Stop. Stop! We both know it’s all nepotism.”
“I don’t see Connor there with you,” he says. “And isn’t he five years older?”
“Seven,” she corrects with an impish grin, and part of me withers and dies. “All right, enough with the flattery. We have magic to work and a disturbingly limited amount of time to make it happen. I’m looping in the palace PR team now.”
As she clicks a few buttons, I glance at Kit. The way he’s gone from somber and careful with me to this gregarious social butterfly with Astrid makes a strange, jagged sensation slice through me, and I can’t help but wonder which version of him is the truth.
Our eyes meet, and he laces our fingers together, stroking the back of my hand with his thumb. He thinks I’m jealous. Maybe I am, but when I search the hollowness in my chest for any burning insecurity or animosity toward this gorgeous, accomplished friend of the person I love, all I feel is a cold and abiding sadness for what now stands between me and Kit. And every part of me that has, again and again, lost friends and family and all the places and things I ever dared to love is screaming at me aboutanother loss to come—this one so deep that I can’t even begin to fathom it.
