by Luis, Maria
“Æthelred,” mutters Saxon, shaking his head.
Blankly, I stare at him. “Who?”
“Nothing.” He guides the car onto the off-ramp and circles an empty roundabout. “It’s nothing. We’re almost there. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen.”
He says it with all the excitement of a prospective visit with the dentist. Clamping my hands down on my opposite forearms, I tip my head back against the plush headrest.
“There was no boy,” I tell Josie, looking into the rearview mirror so I can glimpse her face, “and there were no late nights spent at the network. I lied. I lied for years and I can’t take back any of that.” Swallowing tightly, I rub my thumb against the jut of my elbow, needing to do something with my hands. “I thought . . . I thought, maybe, that with the king dead, the country would revert back to how things were before. Parliament at the forefront of our politics. Nights where we didn’t worry about hearing the sirens, announcing another death at yet another riot. I thought we’d be safe. Maybe not me, but you, Josie, and you, Peter. I thought the two of you would be safe.”
“You were naïve,” Saxon utters roughly, “so bloody naïve.”
I don’t even bother to defend myself. “I was.”
Truthfully, I still am.
Peter’s hand gently folds over my shoulder, squeezing. “I don’t want you to think that I hate you. I can’t . . . Fuck—”
“Language, Peter,” Josie admonishes, and from the way Peter jolts in his seat, I have the sneaking suspicion that she poked him.
“Dammit, Jos, I’m trying to say something here.”
“No one’s stopping you.”
A small, battle-weary smile lifts the corner of my mouth. “Josie, let him talk.”
Squeezing my shoulder again, Peter goes on. “We all wanted the king dead. All of us. But I wouldn’t have done it myself. That’s not, uh . . . That’s not the sort of person I am, I suppose. But you’ve always been braver than me, Isla. You do what no one else will, and I-I just wanted to tell you that. It’s not naïve to trust your gut—it just makes you human.”
Tears prick the back of my eyes and I reach up to grasp his fingers. Overwhelmed by emotion, I kiss the back of his hand, the way Mum used to do to us as children. “You have no idea what that means to me,” I say, my voice ragged. “I love you.”
“What about me?” Josie pipes up, jabbing me in the other shoulder.
I glance back at her, and she is just so Josie. Tough and brave and so much older than her sixteen years, but her blue eyes reveal everything she won’t say out loud: she’s terrified of me dying, of somehow leaving her behind to fend for herself. “I love you, too,” I tell her, snagging her hand before she pulls away completely. “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”
Even kill the king.
For the first time in the hour-long ride, the radio punches on and music floods the car. Saxon’s palm hits the steering wheel with an audible thwack. “Five minutes.”
Letting Peter and Josie go, I settle a hand on his upper arm. “Are you okay?”
He issues me a stiff nod but says nothing for the remainder of the ride. Trees bracket the two-lane road, their scraggly branches eclipsing the clear sky above. The stifled air has returned, and not even the upbeat melody playing from the speakers can do much to erase the unease seeping back into my veins.
The road opens some, revealing a quaint stone house on our right before Saxon takes a left at the fork. And then it’s nothing but a narrow, single lane road leading us deeper and deeper into the woods. The brush grows thicker, the sky disappears altogether, and I can’t even imagine what it must be like to drive here at night.
Pure, all-encompassing darkness.
I sit up tall in my seat. “How much farther?”
Gravel crunches under the tires as Saxon eases us down a small drive lined with trees on one side and a short brick wall on the other. “We’re here,” he says, and then we are.
A landscaped lawn comes into view, followed shortly by a paved path that winds around a pond and a small stream. Stone bridges arc over the water, and if I lived here, I know—without a shadow of a doubt—that I would spend most of my days seated beside that stream, taking in every splash that nature has to offer.
I lower my window, hoping to catch the sound of rippling water.
“What is this place?” Josie breathes from the backseat.
“We call it the Palace,” Saxon answers, turning the music off with a flick of his fingers. “It was built for Henry VIII. A manor house that he never visited.” He looks over at me, pausing, before returning his attention back to the road. “In the chapel, the ceiling has artwork that the architect had done to commemorate Henry’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon.”
Peter releases a boyish chuckle. “I bet that didn’t pan out well in convincing Henry to come on by for a wee visit.”
“It didn’t, but it’s been”—Saxon brushes his thumb over his mouth—“in our family since the late nineteenth century.”
“Like a home base?” Josie asks curiously. “Do you belong to a secret organization, Saxon?”
The car slows to a stop. And then, “Something like that.”
More unexpected honesty.
Something unfurls in my chest, an emotion I’ve never felt before, and I reach for his hand on instinct alone. Crazy or not, I feel like I could take on the entire world, so long as he’s with me. A team. An unstoppable unit. Saxon balances out my rashness. Reckless, he once called me.
I suppose he was right.
But he’s not as cruel or savage as I once believed him.
“We’ll get out here,” he murmurs, squeezing my hand before letting go.
As one, we follow as he leads us down a gravel-paved path sandwiched between neatly mowed grass and untamed green ferns. The grounds are a treat for the eyes, a beautiful blending of acutely designed parterre gardens and wild foliage allowed to grow free of heavy hands and sharp shears. If I believed in fairy tales, then this would certainly be the one I wished to live in.
And then my jaw actually does drop when the medieval-styled manor house comes into view.
I stumble to a stop. “There’s a moat.”
Peter brushes past me, our duffel bag looped over one shoulder. “Bloody hell. Is that a drawbridge?”
“My brother had it installed as a joke about five years ago,” Saxon murmurs, his fingers thrust deep into the front pockets of his joggers. “We all had a good laugh, and then we promptly locked him out for the night. Couldn’t even swim over because these walls were built over five-hundred years ago. There’s no scaling them when the bridges are up.”
“Was it Guy you pranked?” Josie asks, skipping forward with her arms spread wide.
“No.” A small pause. “My brother Damien.”
“Oh, the mad one,” she singsongs, turning back to us with a wriggle of her brows. “Or that’s what I’ve heard, at least. But since I heard that you killed the king, and obviously you didn’t, I’ll withhold judgment on the Mad Priest. For now.”
Saxon mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “You really shouldn’t,” before speaking louder, “Why don’t you and Peter go ahead? Guy will be waiting in the Great Hall. I want to show your sister something.”
Peter and Josie require no further encouragement.
Like the children they once were, they race each other over the wooden bridge. With a shove at the front door, which looks like heavy oak, they disappear inside. Only then do I turn to Saxon. “You’re full of surprises.”
His green eyes land on my face. “I have another to show you.”
I lift a brow. “Oh?”
Removing his hand from his pocket, he holds it out for me to take, palm up. “After your grand reveal today, I thought this might interest you. Come with me.”
He doesn’t need to tell me twice.
As we walk, I take in the elaborate garden that spans from the back of the house to a building that looks like it was once used as
the estate’s stables. Tall and constructed of brick and exposed wooden beams, it’s a more modest version of the Palace. Smaller, though not by much. My palm is sweaty within Saxon’s when I murmur, “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you earlier . . . about the king, I mean.”
“You’ve already apologized.”
Rueful, I shake my head. “I know. I know. But I should have told you sooner. The world thought you did it and I never corrected the assumption.”
“You would have been dead,” he replies stiffly. “Correcting the world would have done nothing but put a mark on your head.”
“Which has happened, anyway.”
Saxon falls silent as he props open the door to the building and releases my hand so I can pass him. I go willingly, only pausing once I’m inside.
Dark-paneled walls.
Slate flooring.
I turn in a semi-circle. “You’ve clearly done some restoration work in here. It’s not at all what I expected.”
“It’s where we work.” Saxon’s hand claims its spot at the base of my spine. “Our headquarters.”
Curious, I slant a look at him. “Are you admitting that you aren’t just a pub owner? That you’re actually as Josie said—a secret agent or something?”
He meets my stare with no hint of hesitation. “Surprise,” he says on a husky rumble, and a chill skates down my spine. “You wondered about the car and the houses and the security system at the Stepney place . . . Josie wasn’t wrong.”
“And you work together with your brothers?”
“For better or worse.”
“Interesting.” I continue down the short hall, listening for Saxon’s footsteps and realizing that he’s so light on his feet that his stride barely makes a sound. “What did you want to show me?”
“It’s right down here.”
He motions for me to turn right when the hallway ends, and I slow, just a little, to trail his heels and survey the space around me. More dark walls and dark, polished floors and it’s as though I’ve been thrust inside a maze. Had there not been any light from the diamond-paned windows lining the left side of the hall, I would be completely lost.
I watch Saxon’s broad shoulders as he stops and waits for me to catch up. When I do, he taps his fingers on a fancy-looking panel, and shock riots through me when I realize that we’re actually standing before a door. A glass door.
My jaw falls open. “Is that . . . is that a—”
“An ally to the queen,” he answers, his voice completely impassive. “His name is Alfie Barker.”
I stare, open-mouthed, at the man huddled in the corner of the room. His clothes are bloodied, his stare blank, and I barely manage to choke back a gasp. My fingers graze the door, the glass cool to the touch. “He can’t see us.”
It’s not a question, and Saxon doesn’t treat it as such. “A one-sided mirror. We can see in but he can’t see us. He can’t hear us, either, unless I want him to.”
Which I don’t.
Saxon doesn’t say the words out loud, but I hear them, nonetheless.
Something that feels acutely like discomfort swirls in the pit of my stomach. I drop my hand back to my side. Rub my fingers along my hip, hoping to erase the bite of cold from the door. Loyalist or not, that man—Alfie Barker—looks . . . broken.
“You’ve beaten him.”
Saxon’s answering pause lasts so long that I look up at him. Only then do I realize he was waiting for eye contact. Slowly, softly, he confesses, “I told you that I have no heart, Isla.”
I swallow, hard. “But you have choices. You could choose to treat him kindly instead of—instead of—” I wave my hand at the door, to the man ensconced inside who looks like he’s been to hell and back.
The wave is all I can manage, and Saxon catches my hand in his. “You had a choice, too. With the king.”
“I did.” Lifting my chin, I add, “And maybe I made the wrong one but, in that moment, it felt right. It felt like the only option.”
“Then maybe you can see that I feel the same with Barker.” A tick appears in his jaw. “I had no choice. I’ve never had a choice. That was decided for me a hundred years ago, and it’s either family or—fuck.”
A hundred years ago? Is his secret organization with his brothers truly that old? A hundred years ago, life in Britain was normal. Unmarked by domestic unrest. But knowing what I do now—about my parents and this world that keeps so many secrets—I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s always been a group like the Priests who have wanted the royal family stripped of their crown.
Wanting to comfort him, and with my back to the cell imprisoning the queen’s ally, I intertwine our fingers. “Clearly, I don’t agree with your methods. But I don’t . . . I’m still on your side, Saxon. I breathe, you inhale, and we both go up in flames, remember?”
His features splinter.
With relief? Gratitude?
Then, voice raspy, he says, “There’s one more person I need to show you. Come.”
With my heart lodged in my throat, I follow.
Five steps.
An erratic pulse.
Sweaty palms.
Saxon pauses at the room beside Alfie Barker’s, his face turned away as he plugs a code into the panel on the wall. I don’t know what to make of him keeping this all a secret—some government organization that he’s never once hinted at—but I trust him.
I trust Saxon Priest with my whole heart.
The door cracks open.
“In here,” he tells me.
“Are we . . .” I lick my lips, suddenly nervous. If the other room held a supporter of Queen Margaret, God knows who this one houses. “Are we supposed to go in, just like that?”
His stare ensnares mine. “I have you, Isla. Go in.”
I listen, just as I did a week ago when he ordered me to get in his car. I obey, just as I did when he told me to slip into the confessional at Christ Church Spitalfields. I trust, just as I did after he saved me at The Octagon and brought me into his home like I belong with him.
Like I belong to him.
My steps are silent as I enter the room, and instantly, I note that it’s empty.
Completely.
Utterly.
Empty.
“I don’t under—”
A soft but still deafening click has me whipping around, mid-sentence.
Saxon peers back at me from the other side of the door, and this one—this glass isn’t single-sided. I can see him, clearly, and I can hear every damning word falling from his scarred lips as I stand, shocked to my core, and he levels me with a truth I don’t want to believe.
“Don’t breathe for the enemy, Isla. Don’t breathe for me.”
The enemy?
Heart beating so frantically that I hear nothing beyond the roar in my ears, I rush to the door. “Saxon, let me out.” I pound my fist on the glass, again and again and again. “There’s a misunderstanding. Whatever this is, it’s just a misunderstanding. Please, let me out. Please.”
“I’m a spy for the Crown, and you killed the king.” Green eyes spear me from behind the barrier separating us. “The only misunderstanding is that I didn’t know sooner or you’d be dead already.”
He steps away from the door.
Steps away from me.
“Saxon, let me go.” I smash my fist into the glass. “Saxon!”
And then the door goes opaque, a double-sided mirror no more, and I scream. I claw at the glass. I cry for mercy.
Help doesn’t come.
I breathe, you inhale, and we both go up in flames.
Liar.
Liar.
Liar.
Saxon Priest has turned me to ash and I’ve never been more alone.
34
Saxon
I see only Guy’s face when I enter the library.
Smug.
Victorious.
My boots land like anvils on the eighteenth-century Persian rug. I hear Damien call my name. Barely acknowledge Hamish when he toas
ts me with a celebratory cigar and a tumbler of whisky. I ignore Paul completely.
“Saxon, tell me. How is the king killer finding her new accommodations?”
It’s the only thing Guy says, and he says it like he’s discussing whether or not he needs to take a piss. But his blue eyes remain trained on me with a certain glint that threatens the last vestiges of my sanity. Any chance of him saying anything more is obliterated two seconds later when I snatch him by the shirt, haul him from the chair, and plow my fist directly into his face.
His head snaps to the side, a grunt pulling from his mouth.
Undeterred, I punch him again.
The left side, this time.
The audible crack of bone breaking shatters the room, followed only by Damien’s urgent shout, but there’s only rage. Rage that swarms my vision. Rage that has me snarling, “You fucking bastard,” as I rear back, prepared to deliver another blow.
Strong hands grapple at my forearm at the final moment, swinging me around.
“Jesus,” Damien grunts, shaking me, “stop.”
I don’t stop. “Let. Me. Go.”
“Are you mad?” When I try again to jerk away, Damien tightens his unyielding grip around my chest. His blue stare, so eerily similar to Guy’s, hardens with irritation. “What the fuck has gotten into you?”
“Isla Quinn.”
At the rasped remark from behind me, I shove Damien off and turn on my heels to stare down my older brother. I want to tear him limb from limb. Carve out his dead, unforgiving heart and drop it at his feet. My chest expands with heavy, ragged breaths, and it’s only a matter of self-restraint that keeps me from starting round two.
“I told you what would happen if you mentioned her again.”
Guy digs his thumb into the cut below his left browbone. When his finger comes away with blood, I feel not an ounce of regret. Given the chance, I’d do it all over again. “And I told you what would happen the next time you hit me.” Without even a grimace, he drags his bloodied thumb across his white shirt, leaving behind a trail of red. “But here we are, both of us still alive. You’re losing your touch.”