by Emily Evans
That wasn’t what I needed from him. “Wythe.”
“Yeah.” He nodded, looking almost pleased. “You used me, and I’ll use you to finish the class.”
He wasn’t kicking me out. I had time, and that gave me a chance. That was good. Calm down. Breathe. He’ll get over this. Tell him. What? What could I say? I shouldn’t have sent that photo out. I knew better. I hadn’t even read the packet at the time, and I knew better. I could make this up to him.
He got up and paced. “I think we should go to the station.”
I wasn’t following his meaning. I had to get it together and be useful. Think about class myself before I revealed something I shouldn’t reveal about how I felt about him. My heart thumped at the thought, and it caused enough of a jolt of fear that I got my mind in the game. “Why?”
“For the red clue. Paddington Station.”
“Okay.” I still wasn’t fully tracking. Red as a clue could mean the red of Paddington Bear’s jacket, or a phone booth, or a random crayon. At the rate of these clues, we wouldn’t finish the class before this six-week internship was over. “This lag between clues, is it so the other teams can catch up? We’re going to be in this for a while together.” I used the words “we” and “our” deliberately so he’d remember we were in this together.
He shook his head and waved a dismissive hand. “This class is about to spiral into high speed.”
“How do you know that?”
He frowned. “The professor’s post on the class board. Didn’t you read it? Final answers are due by week’s end.”
I hadn’t read that. I shrugged. I really should have read up on the class. But now I knew. I had a week to win him over.
“The professor is not impressed with the class papers or the few guesses that have come in. July’s ending. The internship ends in August, too. You and I are almost finished.”
We weren’t finished. Working on the project would force him to work with me. It gave me time. I clung to that thought. “Did you want to type ‘Paddington’ in as our answer?”
Wythe shook his head. “Paddington’s a central hub. If the new clue requires travel, it’ll put us that much closer to wherever we need to go. We’ll be ready… if we’re not stuck in here.” He shot the bunker a resentful look. “The class could end today with a mad rush of clues and me getting stuck with tons of papers because we can’t leave this room.” He ran his hand over his hair.
I hadn’t known most of that. I didn’t want to think about it now. I wanted my hands in his hair. Stop. Shake this off. Concentrate. Don’t be so attracted to him. Sound smart. Be smart. “That would be our ultimate answer then, that a book transports you even when you can’t leave the room.” I thought that was a really good answer.
He looked at me like I’d started quoting Shakespeare at him again and paced. “I should never have agreed to this class.”
“The clue could involve Downing Street, and we’d be right here on top of it.” I was trying to make my tricking him into this panic room less damaging with that suggestion.
“Not likely.”
True. I’d ruled out English writers who’d been politicians because the professor would likely see that as an unfair advantage for the Prime Minister’s son. Okay, focus. We could get back to… what, a friendship at least? A truce. I didn’t want a truce. I didn’t want to be his friend. I wanted to kiss him again. But I couldn’t have that. I had a lot of relationship ground to make up.
“Okay. I agree to Paddington Station,” I said with a friendly magnanimous tone.
Wythe made a dismissive sound as if I’d commented on the apple-fragranced cleaning product the cleaners used instead of yielding to his idea.
I breathed in and then out. “When exactly is the next clue due to drop?
“Teatime. The class boards, the ones you didn’t read, said we get another clue by teatime. We’d better be out soon.” He crossed the room and took clothes from a shelf then went through a small door to the bunker’s bathroom. The sound of water pounding down came through the wall. A little rude, but it was easier to think without him in the room confusing me. As long as I didn’t think about him being in the shower.
Class. Class. Class.
Focus.
I wasn’t exactly current with the class or with checking how this puzzle worked. Really, I’d graduated high school just a few months ago. I had nothing left to give academically. Much less enough to be competitive in a high-stress Oxford class. But I could help him finish it. Not just for him. For me. If we didn’t come out on top, we’d have to do a lot of papers. I didn’t want to write more papers, not in the summer. But I also didn’t want to fail my one and only ever Oxford class. Especially a literature class. The subject I was going to major in. That would be horrible, like negating my choice. I had every reason now to solve the class puzzle. We’d had King Richard and now Red.
How were they connected?
I pondered it while waiting for Wythe to return and drank a bottle of water from the supplies. I didn’t know if there was some sort of bunker supply list I needed to mark, but I figured whoever maintained this place would see the empty plastic water bottle and figure to re-stock. If not, they didn’t deserve the position. Wythe came out, showered, dressed in jeans and a green Henley shirt, rubbing a towel on his wet hair. His skin had to be shower hot and soap scented. I wanted closer.
“I’m thinking about the connection.” I had to cough because my voice came out husky. “Richard and Red.”
“What a waste. Give me math any day.” He narrowed his eyes. “What else have you figured out… and not shared?”
I tilted my head and tried not to react to his jab. He had a right to be put out.
I closed my eyes and thought about the clues. “I figure the answers will be connected. I figure they’ll be major English Literature authors. Epic. Historic ones: Austen, Bronte, Chaucer, Dickens… We can rule out former PMs like Churchill and Disraeli. Students would complain the professor was catering to you and by extension, the ruler of your country.”
“They would.” Wythe nodded and lost his cold look. He wore a classmate kind of look now. “Go on.” He dropped his wet towel on the shelf and found a comb. He dragged it through his towel-dried hair.
I did my best not to stare. Seeing his routine was intimate. I focused on the class. “The professor is a guy, so the ultimate authors he’s thinking of are probably men. Unless we have a progressive professor. Then he’ll throw in half women, just so he doesn’t get called on that BS.”
“Narrowing the possibilities. Good.”
“Yeah. I also ruled out foreigners. If you have enough famous English writers– freaking home of Shakespeare and all—then you don’t have to add in the other brilliants who lived here but retained their foreign identity like Oscar Wilde. I mean, Shakespeare. We could blow our ultimate guess on Shakespeare, the Globe, or his home at Stratford-on-Avon, and not be ashamed. But we really need more clues.” My voice picked up enthusiasm. I really did love this topic.
Wythe nodded. “My train station idea is sound. We’ll get out of here. Apply my transport advantage to your list, and we’ll be out in front. Get this over with.”
I nodded with confidence, although all I felt at his words was cold, uncertain, and confined. I kicked off my shoes and lay with my back to the armrest. The couch fabric scratched at my neck. I wedged a throw pillow behind me. I’d known we had chemistry. I’d known I was crushing on him. I hadn’t known how connected we were until it was taken away. We’d get our connection back. I’d get it back for us. I had to. “How close are we to Paddington Station?”
“Not far. It’s an advantageous locale. You’ll see. With London’s traffic, you have to think two steps ahead or you’ll end up hours behind.” He went on about Westminster in relation to the train station and traffic hours. Before he finished, the door opened.
The guard stood in the doorway. “All clear.” He looked hard at me. “Possibly the candle you were admiring set off ou
r alarm. Though it shouldn’t have. We’ve had the candles removed.”
“Great precaution,” I said.
The guard snorted.
I stretched, getting off the couch. “So, how many rooms are there like this?”
“I can’t say,” Wythe said.
“Do you all get your own?”
“It depends on which room we’re closest to and the type of threat. If a route is cut off, we have to go to a backup room.”
“Oh.” Weird how that sounded somewhat normal.
The guard secured the door behind us. Wythe and I took the stairs up to the main entry.
“I met your brother.” There. That was casual friendly conversation.
He sent me a sharp glance. “Why would you want to meet Zane?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Is he like you or Caroline?” Tell me about yourself.
He frowned. “He’s himself. And, like me, so over the manipulation.” He wasn’t making a dig, just stating a fact.
We reached the front of the building. A whirring sounded, and the door opened, freeing us from one chamber to the next. Then we were out of security and outside in the mild English summer. We stood on the curb, waiting for the car.
“Wythe. I don’t want to be one of the people in your life who manipulates you.”
“Really, Kira. Don’t.” Wythe faced forward. “Because, you know, and I know, you already are.”
The black town car pulled up and he got in, leaving me standing there. It hurt. My insides hurt. Breathing hurt. Why? Anger at my sister? Embarrassment? Oh, no. It really was my heart. The worst kind of hurt.
Chapter 15
Act normal and things would go back to normal. That’s how I handled fallouts with my sister. I pretended she hadn’t royally angered me. She pretended none of my digs affected her, and we moved on. Often with a small silent treatment, which was what Felicity was getting now from me. Felicity was used to it.
Wythe didn’t just give me the silent treatment. He played cold and distant. A British specialty. Not one word in the car on the way to Paddington Station. We pulled up right beside a brass statue of Paddington Bear. Tourists were posing with him. “Let’s get savory pastries and pose with that bear.”
His expression said he was warring with obeying me versus giving in to his hunger. Wythe pushed out his lip. “It is teatime.”
There really was no set teatime. Teatime meant afternoon snack and could happen any time after lunch and before dinner. I wanted a pasty. The half-moon shaped potpies were a much more travel-friendly shape than our own little pies because I could eat the half-moons without a fork and they could be carried in my hand. An eco-friendly kind of takeout. “I want a potato-cheese pasty.”
Interest sparked in Wythe’s eyes. “They may still have steak ones.”
I paused at the bear on the way in, waiting for the tourists to finish their snapshot. I was getting a selfie. Sure, I could have ignored the whole selfie sore point. But then, things around it would fester. I was ripping the band-aid off on the photo issue. Wythe was looking around as if he wasn’t used to the train station. “Wythe. Come here.” He looked at me like I was crazy. “Get in the photo with me. If ‘Paddington’ is correct, great, we’ll get a tick mark. But if he’s not, we can send in this picture with Paddington wearing his little red jacket, and the Professor will understand why we thought of ‘red’ and bear books.” I was overexplaining to persuade him.
He wavered. More than one tourist was waiting for me to move so they could get their shot. I wasn’t budging. That, more than anything, made him lean in and pose.
Then we entered the train station. Paddington Station smelled of London air and train exhaust and held a ton of commuters all going purposefully in different directions. Two couples rolled bags along the purple floor stickers leading them to the Heathrow Express. A group of guys in soccer jerseys headed to the underground entrance. A guy in a striped suit carrying a briefcase strode toward the taxi queue. A few were like me and Wythe, less purposeful.
Stores and restaurants enclosed the railway tracks on one end. We got our food at a kiosk and found an iron bench. After the first cheesy bite and sip of semi-warm fizzy soda, my phone pinged with an incoming email. I clicked on it, hoping for the next clue. Something Wythe and I could talk about.
The email was from Felicity. I opened it. Waking up to another glorious day. Going to hit the Smithsonian for some sight-seeing. Or is it site-seeing? Whichever. D.C. in the summer is such a treat. Are you getting any touring in? I know I’m lucky to be so ahead on my assignments. Is it raining there? Again. Don’t let those wet plop-plops stop you from getting out.
Whatever. She didn’t even mention what she had done.
I started to reply but another email popped up. This one was from the professor. Wythe and Kira are in the lead. First, with their King Richard solve. Now with a creative take on “red.” Nice. I tapped Wythe’s arm so he’d lean in and read with me. May the other teams strive to match their superior progress as we speed to the end of term. I expect a paper on King Richard from the rest of class for failing to guess Shakespeare first. Really, lads. The progress toward solving my literary puzzle has been less than stellar. In the words of Ian Fleming, “Never say no to adventures. Always say yes. Otherwise, you’ll lead a very dull life.”
The thrill of a win made me grin at Wythe. I waved my pasty and my soda in a small circle. “Ha.”
His eyes glinted, but he didn’t say anything.
My phone blinked with an incoming video chat invite. Names appeared: Vihaan Laghari and Peppa. I accepted the chat and a window opened.
Vihaan and Peppa stared back at us. Vihaan was as dark as Peppa was fair. I hadn’t seen him before, but his identity was a safe bet because Wythe had said they were partners. Behind them was a black lion statue. They were at Trafalgar Square. Vihaan leaned into the camera. “Live big for now, team one. But remember we are doing well also. First place.” Vihaan’s voice became strangled. “Is this the doing of your new partner?” He turned to Peppa. “Did you know of her, Peppa?”
Peppa inclined her head. “Of course.” But her brow wrinkled. I didn’t know if she had known. I hadn’t told her.
“How did you get a girl on your team? We haven’t seen her.” Vihaan clicked on his phone instead of waiting for me to answer. “Did you transfer? How come we don’t know you?”
I leaned in closer. “Hi.”
Peppa narrowed her gray eyes. Vihaan widened his dark brown ones.
“Live small, team two. You’re about to lose again.” I drawled out the words.
Vihaan said, “She is American. Wythe, you joined forces with an American on a British literature quest?” Vihaan laughed, and his words came out garbled. “Well done, mate, that’ll get you far.” He’d gone from speaking as if I were a threat to dismissing me.
I didn’t like it.
“I’m sure your team will do better next go around,” Wythe said, sounding like he wasn’t sure they would.
Peppa pushed Vihaan’s shoulder. “Move in. They can see where we are.”
Vihaan leaned even closer to the camera, sending the lens up one of his nostrils. “When will we be meeting with Kira?” He sounded eager. There must not have been that many women in the class.
“She’s busy,” Wythe said.
Vihaan shook his head. “But as the only two teams in the top, we should get together and share notes. Have a cup of tea.”
Peppa was facing her partner, her profile to us. There had to be a phrase for that. Giving us the side-face didn’t cover it. “You heard she’s American, right? Doesn’t that establish that she doesn’t drink tea? She’s staying with us at Downing Street. Can you believe it?” She said “Downing Street” like the place was holy, like she owned it.
“Yep. Downing Street. A place built on a Middle Ages brewery.” I’d read my packet and my UK Telegraph. “Named after Sir George Downing. Educated at Harvard. You know, in America.”
Peppa frowned as I yanked
her chain.
“How about the pub then?” Vihaan asked.
I nodded. “I haven’t been to an English pub.” I shook my head at Wythe, so he’d know I was lying. “Sounds fun.”
Their heads jerked back in incomprehension.
“We’ll do that then,” Wythe said.
“We’ll do that then,” Peppa echoed and turned back to us, her eyes so narrow now they were almost closed. “How about now? Where are you? Are those trains?”
Wythe clicked the screen off. “We’ll text you.”
Chapter 16
We entered the crowded pub. Wythe looked around and said, “Downstairs.”
I followed him, weaving through the small tables. “I thought we were meeting them at a pub with a Goat in the name, not a Cheese in the name.”
Wythe entered the stairwell. He was bent at the waist, barely making it down the low dark stairs ahead of me. “Did I say that?”
“Yeah. You did.” I was glad the other two wouldn’t be joining us, but I wanted to know his reasoning. The steps were steep and awkward; I grabbed the handrail. They took us into a drinking cellar, and we found a corner table. I sank into the dark wooden chair. Music played down here, classic British pop tunes. At home, they’d play Top 40 music. Here they stuck to the proven.
Wythe shrugged. “They’ll go to a goat pub. We’ll go here.” He looked around at the Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese built in 1667. “I thought you’d like it. Dickens and Twain drank here.”
I did like that. I liked it even more that he thought to pick a pub that would appeal to me. “‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.’ Charles Dickens. It fits my summer.”
The corner of Wythe’s mouth quirked. It made me want to think of more quotes. Quotes to toast to in this pub with its darkened lighting, low ceilings, and massive bar. Mom would have called this place a traditional proper pub. I didn’t know what she’d think about me being out with Wythe at a pub. She’d probably worry. But she would like that security accompanied me. I’d made a point of mentioning several times during our family calls. “Your guards won’t come in?”