8. “The Sound of Silence” - Disturbed
“The Sound of Silence” - Disturbed
The sound of angry shouting filters through the windows of my mother’s car. She graciously allowed me to take it to work this morning since my own is at the repair shop for the foreseeable future, but there will likely be recompense to come.
On the block ahead of me, where the Historical Society is located, a crowd of people is boiling like a pot of stew.
Some are holding handmade signs. Some are cupping their hands around their mouths as they yell.
All of them appear angry. Probably another labor union strike, although I don’t know why they’d be in front of the Society.
I circle the block to the back of the building, but it’s almost as surrounded as the front, the sidewalks and streets throbbing with an almost palpable rage.
I briefly consider turning around and going home, but I need to get to work today.
After reading the diary, my arguments with both Henry and Maisie, my car breaking down, and the twenty minutes I spent searching for my phone this morning, I am counting on a long list of to-dos to get my mind off things.
I find a parking spot, grab my purse, and head for the door. Maybe I can help these people in some way. If this is another labor strike, I might be able to initiate negotiations, but first I need to get inside and clear my head.
I pick my way through the crowd and am almost halfway to the back entrance when someone shouts, “Hey! Aren’t you Duchess Celia?”
Some people will never learn the proper styling of titles, nor respect those who choose not to use them. I swallow the urge to correct him. “Yes, I am.”
“That’s her,” another person yells. “She’s the one trying to steal the crown!”
The tone among the protesters changes. The shift is small at first, like a pebble thrown in a pool, then grows bigger and bigger. Slowly, as people realize what’s happening, they turn and begin hurling insults in my direction.
“Throne robber!”
“Liar!”
“Power hungry!”
For the first time, I read the signs they’re holding up along the street.
Our King, our monarch.
No stupid notebook is going to change anything.
Love Wesbourne, love the king.
A sharp pain shoots through my chest. Someone has gone public with the diary.
A reporter blocks my path and tries to shove a mic into my face. “Miss Chapman-Payne! What are your plans? Do you think you’ll be successful in taking the throne?”
I push past her and stumble on, keeping my head down.
My legs are as limp as Jell-O, but I force them to carry me past the protesters to the back door of the Historical Society. I pray my key magically won’t stick for once, and fate smiles on me for the first time all morning.
I burst through the door and relock it behind me, then collapse against the cool steel. It’s a relief against the hot flashes taking over my body. My heart pounds like waves against a rocky cliff. Yoga breaths, I remind myself. Slow and steady. Calm and collected.
Maisie walks in from the archive room and startles when she sees me. “What are you doing here?”
“I work here. What in god’s name is going on?”
She follows me down the hall to my office. “Didn’t you see the news this morning?”
“No. I didn’t have time.” I think of the twenty minutes I spent combing every inch of my bedroom for my missing phone before finding it on my desk in the library. Today is already shaping up to be fantastic. “Have you called the police?”
“There are a few officers out there, but there’s nothing they can do at this point. The crowd is peacefully protesting.”
I can still feel hands clamoring at me, and I shudder. “That is anything but peaceful.”
“Didn’t you get my texts? I even tried calling you.”
I unlock my traitorous device to see a missed call from Maisie and four from Henry. Maybe I should start tying the thing to my body. “I couldn’t find my phone, and by the time I did, I was already running late.”
All weekend, Henry bombarded me with messages.
He seemed to have made it his personal mission to change my mind about the whole diary business.
When he wasn’t successful, he must have decided to take more extreme measures and gone to the press.
I will have his head before the day is over. What a bloody disaster.
Maisie walks over to the window and peeks through the miniblinds. “There are so many people out there.”
“And they’re very angry.” I blow out a breath. “What am I going to do?”
“I think you just have to ignore them. They’ll eventually lose interest and go away.”
“I mean in the long run. So much for burning the diary and pretending it never existed.”
She turns around, fear in her eyes. “You don’t—you don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?
Because I swear I didn’t say a word to anyone.
You know I would never do that, right? I promised you I’d take this secret to my grave.
While I think you’d make an incredible queen, and obviously I would kill to be your private secretary .
. . I mean imagine. It would be a total dream come true.
” She shakes her head. “But that’s not the point.
Because I would never do that to you. I can’t even—”
“Maisie.” I put up my hand, motioning for her to stop. “I never thought you were responsible.” It took me all of two seconds to put the pieces together. “I know exactly who is to blame for this mess.”
Just like that, my plan to hide the past has disintegrated with a poof. Wesbourne is going to take matters into her own hands, without stopping to consider the cost to herself. How many people will be hurt by the time this blows over?
Maisie walks back to the door. “I’ll get you a coffee. We’ll both think better with some caffeine in our systems.”
“You’re a saint.”
After she leaves, I take her spot at the window and peer out at the crowd, which has grown in size and is still quite animated. Someone is giving an impromptu speech. What is the Crown making of all this?
Like some kind of creepy telepathy, Henry’s name lights up my phone, his fifth call this morning.
“You have some nerve,” I say.
“Why didn’t you answer earlier? Don’t go to work today.”
“Too late.”
“You’re already there? Bloody hell, C.”
“I had no idea there was anything going on.”
“If you would have answered your goddamn phone—” He breaks off, and I picture him pacing, his hair disheveled from his roving fingers.
“I cannot believe that after everything I said, you still went behind my back,” I tell him. “What kind of bastard are you? This will completely ruin me, to say nothing of the repercussions for the whole country. You’re even worse than I thought.”
“God, Celia. Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?” A muffled curse floats through the phone. “Do you actually think I had something to do with this?”
“What do you expect me to think? You pester me all weekend about it, then expect me to believe someone else leaked the story?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I expect, because it sure as hell wasn’t me. Who else did you tell?” Anger bleeds through his voice.
“I didn’t tell anyone. Maisie already knew, but she swears she didn’t say a thing.”
“It had to be her.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “She’s the last person on earth to say anything, right after your dog.”
“I don’t have a dog.”
“So what happens now?” I turn as Maisie reenters my office with a steaming mug of coffee. Bless you, I mouth.
“We have a meeting with the press secretary and prime minister in an hour,” Henry says. “Hopefully we’ll get a plan in place to stop this madness.”
“Good luck. Keep—”
The sound of breaking glass reverberates through the room as an object tears through the window and slams against my computer screen, shattering both.
I instinctively scream and duck. I do my best to avoid the shards on the floor around me.
If I hadn’t moved a few seconds earlier, pieces of my brain might be splattered across the marble.
“Celia? Celia!” Henry yells from my phone, now lying across the room where it landed. I turn to see Maisie curled into a ball near the door behind me.
“Are you okay?” I ask her.
She nods.
“Go ring the police station. Quickly!”
She scrambles to her feet and leaves the office. Hunching over so I’m below the window, I gingerly pick my way over the glass to my discarded phone. When I lift it to my ear, I can hear Henry on the other end barking orders to someone.
“Henry?”
“Celia, thank God. Are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m fine.” I stay in a crouch but peek over my desk to see what was thrown. “Someone launched a rock through the window. Maisie and I are fine, but my office is a wreck.”
“If you can get to a room without windows, do so now. I’m on my way.” He hangs up before I can object.
“The police are on their way. The officers outside are too busy making arrests to come in and take statements,” Maisie relays when I meet her in the foyer.
Someone has thrown a rock through the glass wall at the front of the building as well, and the shards are scattered all the way to the edge of the reception desk. Fortunately, Maisie contacted all of our staff and volunteers earlier to let them know to take the day off.
When the officers arrive, they take both our statements in small offices away from the main entrance. After we’ve finished, I follow them back to the reception area, where Henry is waiting as promised. He is joined by several armed men that can only be bodyguards.
“You didn’t need to come,” I say, but the relief at seeing him nearly cripples me. I force myself to remain upright and in control. “The police have it handled.”
“Are they going to handle that, too?” He points to my forehead.
I raise my hand to find a small gash, only an inch wide. The blood has already dried. “I’m fine. It’s nothing serious.”
“Regardless, you look like Frankenstein. Let’s get it cleaned up.” He leads me to a nearby chair and pushes me into it.
“Frankenstein was the creator of the monster, not the monster himself.”
“You’re delirious. I’ll be right back with a first-aid kit.”
I close my eyes and lean back. It’s all creeping up on me, and my nerves are so heightened the sensation is almost painful, a tingling that both tickles and hurts. What I wouldn’t give to undo everything that’s happened since Friday.
I startle awake when Henry comes back with the medical bag from the front desk. “When’s the last time you slept?” he asks, pulling out an antiseptic wipe.
“Last night.” I remember seeing 2:27 on my alarm clock before closing my eyes. I haven’t slept more than five consecutive hours in years.
“Hold still.” He leans over and gently wipes away the blood on my face. The scent of his cologne tickles my nose, and I drop my eyes so they can’t meet his.
“Ouch!” I squirm under his feather-soft touch. “That stings.”
“Don’t be a baby. I’m almost done.” He tosses the wipe aside, sticks a bandage over the cut, and carefully rubs his thumb over it, causing a million goosebumps to rise on my neck.
“There, as good as new. Come on, I want to introduce you to your new personal protection officers.” He helps me out of the chair.
Two men, whose suits can’t hide their muscles and who must have aced the class “Twenty-Five Ways to Hide Your Emotions,” are waiting for Henry to snap his fingers and command them into action. “This is Davies, and this is Lane. They’ve been assigned to your security detail,” Henry says.
I shoot them a forced smile before turning back to him. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
“That’s what we’re doing.”
“I mean in private. Without the security.”
He narrows his eyes, then leads me several paces away. “What?”
“I don’t need bodyguards.”
“Today proves otherwise.”
“Fine. I don’t want bodyguards.”
“Too bad. You’ve got some now.”
“You don’t get to make decisions like that for me. I’ll just dismiss them.”
I march past him to do just that, but he grabs my arm, restraining me with ease. “You can’t. They’ve been hired by the Crown. They answer to me, not you.”
Wrenching my arm free of his gasp, I snap, “You have no right to interfere with my life.”
“Hate to break it to you, but you became a matter of great importance to this country when that diary was leaked this morning. So whether you like it or not, you will be accompanied by personal protection officers whenever you leave your home. Got it?” He moves toward the two PPOs, grabbing my arm again and dragging me with him. “Escort her to the car, please.”
I freeze as he releases me. An image of the protesters parades across my vision. It sucks at me, yanking me down into a swarming black vortex of grappling hands and horror and hate.
I’ve never felt hatred like that before. It was a writhing beast, eyes glowing like Lifesavers against the wheezing dark. Those people—the ones I had been cranking out plans to help—they want me silenced. They want me gone.
A strong hand envelops my elbow, a lifesaver of a different sort. I meet Henry’s gaze. “They hate me.”
“They don’t know you. They wouldn’t be able to if they did.”
He shelters me against his chest, and we step outside to face the ugliness of this country I once thought beautiful.