Chapter 12 Polite Interrogation
POLITE INTERROGATION
SEBASTIAN
Cedar curled off the chisel in pale ribbons that smelled like rain and memory.
I turned the box toward the lamp, checking the inlay groove along the lid.
The crescent and star would sit there clean if I didn't rush it.
Silver on cedar. A surprise for my father's desk that he would pretend not to cry over.
Footsteps in the corridor. Not palace steps. Different cadence. Less ceremony, more purpose. Heavier. The kind that came from men who walked crime scenes instead of marble halls.
I didn't look up when the knock came. “Enter.”
Detective Chief Inspector Akintola stepped inside like the room belonged to neither of us and he'd been invited anyway. No uniform. Dark coat, damp at the shoulders. Close-cropped hair catching the lamplight. He shut the door with a soft click and took in the workbench, the tools, the unroyal mess.
“Your Highness.”
“Detective Chief Inspector,” I said, keeping my eyes on the inlay work. Making him wait. “I would offer you a seat, but most of them are covered in sawdust.”
“I've survived worse.” He didn't sit. Instead, he walked a slow line along the shelves, reading the room the way other men read faces.
His gaze passed over the half-finished toys, the stacked wood, the careful organization of tools.
Professional interest. Not accusation. Not yet.
“The palace said you were busy. I asked them to define busy.
They said 'carving.' I asked them if that was a euphemism. They said no.”
“It rarely is.” I set the chisel down and brushed the bench with the back of my wrist. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a late-night inspection?”
“Not an inspection. A conversation.” He moved to the window, looked out at the grounds. “About the vigilante situation.”
“Ah. The archer.” I picked up sandpaper, started smoothing the lid's edge. “I've seen the news coverage. Very dramatic. The press loves a good mystery.”
“The press loves spectacle. I prefer solutions.” He turned back, leaned against the windowsill. Casual. But his eyes tracked everything. “What are your thoughts on vigilantism, Your Highness?”
I paused my sanding. “In general? Or specifically?”
“Let's start with general.”
“I think people resort to vigilantism when they believe the system has failed them. When they think justice moves too slowly or not at all.” I examined the wood grain, kept my voice neutral. Academic. “It's understandable. Misguided, but understandable.”
“Misguided how?”
“Because one person deciding what justice looks like is how we got monarchies. And we all know how well that's worked out.” I met his eyes. Smiled. Empty and perfect. “Present company excluded, of course.”
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “And specifically? This archer. The one who's been leaving bodies around London.”
“I think he's reckless. Dangerous. Playing at hero without understanding the consequences.” I set down the sandpaper, picked up the box. Examined it in the light. “I also think he's probably terrified. Angry. Desperate to do something when everything feels out of control.”
“You've given this thought.”
“I think about a lot of things. Occupational hazard of being a prince with too much time and not enough purpose.” I set the box down, turned to face him fully. “Why are you here, Detective? Surely you don't think I have insight into the mind of a vigilante archer.”
“You'd be surprised what insights royalty can have.” He pushed off from the windowsill, moved closer to the workbench. “You travel through the city. Talk to people. See things from angles I don't. I'm curious what you make of him.”
“Of someone I've never met?”
“Of someone who's doing what you might do if you weren't bound by protocol and security.”
The observation landed like a punch. I kept my expression neutral. “That's quite an assumption.”
“Is it?” He picked up one of the wooden animals, turned it over in his hands.
A rabbit. One of Emma's rabbits. “You make toys for sick children.
Visit hospitals in secret. Skip official engagements to spend time with people no one else remembers.
That doesn't sound like someone content to let the system handle everything.”
“There's a difference between carving toys and shooting people with arrows.”
“Is there? Both are about trying to fix what's broken. Both are about giving something to people who have nothing.” He set the rabbit down carefully. “Both require a certain level of skill and dedication.”
I didn't like where this was going. “If you're suggesting—”
“I'm not suggesting anything. I'm observing.” He moved along the workbench, examining tools with professional interest. “These are quality instruments. Expensive. Well-maintained. You take your craft seriously.”
“Is that a crime?”
“No. But it shows discipline. Patience. The ability to focus on detail work for extended periods.” His eyes met mine. “Similar traits to someone who might make their own arrows, for instance.”
My pulse kicked. I forced myself to stay still. Stay calm. “I make toys, Detective. Not weapons.”
“I know. I've looked into your workshop requisitions. Wood orders. Tool purchases. All legitimate. All accounted for.” He smiled slightly. “Very thorough record-keeping. Your staff is meticulous.”
“They're paid to be.”
“Still. It's impressive.” He moved toward the door, paused. “You know what else is impressive? The vigilante's accuracy. Professional-level archery. Military-grade training, probably. Not the kind of thing you pick up at a weekend course.”
“I wouldn't know. I've never shot a bow in my life.”
The lie tasted bitter. But necessary.
Akintola studied me for a long moment. “Right. Of course you haven't.” He pulled out a small notebook, flipped through pages. “Let me ask you something else, then. These murders. The ones the vigilante commits. What do you think about them?”
“I think murder is murder. Justified or not.”
“Even when the victims are criminals? When they're planning attacks, moving weapons, threatening innocent people?”
“Even then. We have laws for a reason. Courts. Process.”
“Process takes time. People die while we follow procedure.”
“And people die when individuals decide they're judge, jury, and executioner.” I picked up the chisel again, needed something to do with my hands. “The vigilante might think he's helping. But he's just creating more chaos.”
“You sound very certain.”
“I am certain. Because I've seen what happens when people take justice into their own hands. I've seen the collateral damage. The innocent bystanders caught in crossfire. The way violence begets violence until no one remembers what they were fighting for in the first place.”
Akintola tilted his head. “That's... specific.”
Shit. I'd said too much. Let emotion bleed into what should've been detached observation.
“I read,” I said quickly. “History. Philosophy. The same patterns repeat. Vigilantes always think they're different. Special. That their cause justifies their methods. They're always wrong.”
“And yet they keep appearing. Why do you think that is?”
“Because the system fails people. Because justice is slow and imperfect and sometimes the bad guys win.” I set down the chisel with more force than intended.
“Because sometimes the only thing standing between innocent people and violence is someone willing to step into the gap, even if it means breaking rules they're supposed to follow.”
Silence.
I'd said too much again. Revealed too much of what I actually thought instead of what I should think.
Akintola was watching me with those careful, assessing eyes. “You sound almost sympathetic.”
“I'm sympathetic to the impulse. Not the execution.” I met his gaze. “Is there a point to this conversation, Detective? Because if you're trying to determine whether I secretly admire vigilantes, the answer is no. I think they're dangerous, misguided, and ultimately counterproductive.”
“Even if they save lives?”
“Even then. Because the cost is too high. The precedent too dangerous. You can't build a just society on the foundation of individual violence, no matter how noble the intent.”
He nodded slowly. “That's a very principled position.”
“I'm a prince. Principles are part of the job description.”
“So is diplomacy. And yet you seem quite passionate about this.”
Because it was personal. Because I was arguing against myself. Because every word was a condemnation of what I did in the dark while pretending to be civilized in daylight.
“I'm passionate about the rule of law,” I said.
“About maintaining order in a world that's constantly threatening to descend into chaos.
The vigilante might think he's a hero. But he's just another person who thinks his judgment is better than everyone else's. That his violence is justified because his motives are pure.” I leaned against the workbench.
“History is full of people who thought that. They all left corpses in their wake.”
Akintola was quiet for a moment. Then he closed his notebook. “You make a compelling argument.”
“It's the truth.”
“Perhaps.” He moved toward the door again, hand on the handle. “One more question, if you'll indulge me.”
“Of course.”
“If you were the vigilante. If you were the one out there making these choices. What would you want someone to say to you?”
The question caught me off guard. “I'm not—”
“Hypothetically.” His eyes held mine. “What would you need to hear?”
I thought about it. Really thought about it. About all the nights I'd spent running across rooftops, telling myself I was making a difference. About the weight of every arrow I'd loosed. About the way violence felt both necessary and unforgivable.
“I'd want someone to tell me it's okay to stop,” I said finally. Quietly. “That I don't have to carry the weight alone. That there are other ways to fight without becoming what I'm fighting against.”
“And would you listen?”