Chapter Seven
We’re live.
I’ll get the popcorn.
Guy Fawkes, the supposed leader of Fox Rex and the Army of the British Republic, stands ten feet in front of me, holding a pack of frozen peas in one hand and a mug in the other.
The door closes behind him, and he steps toward me, his smile easy and unnerving in its almost-friendliness. “I’m sorry about that,” he says, gesturing to my face. “Dylan was under strict orders not to harm you, but he’s always been a bit of a wild card.”
He holds out the frozen peas, and I hesitate. But only for a moment. “Lucky me,” I mutter, taking them and pressing the cold bag to my jaw. It feels good against what must be some significant swelling, and I touch the corner to my split lip. “Where’s Kit? Is he safe?”
“Perfectly,” he assures me, producing a damp paper towel seemingly out of nowhere. “He left the Flea and Hound of his own accord fifteen minutes ago, alive and well.”
“Prove it.”
“And how do you expect me to do that?” Guy steps closer to me now, so close I can smell his soap, and holds the paper towel near my lip. “Allow me.”
This is such a wild about-face from the figure who’s been stalking me since Christmas that I briefly consider the possibility that he’s an identical twin. But no—this is all to make me putty in his hands. Good terrorist, bad terrorist, and he’s cast himself as the golden boy.
“You have eyes on him,” I say, inching the frozen peas away from my mouth. “You must, if you know he left.”
Guy dabs the paper towel against my lip with surprising care, and only when he’s finished does he drop the bloody towel in the trash bin and pull out his mobile.
“Courtesy of the Regal Record,” he says, showing me the screen.
I only have enough time to think that of course Ben has a hand in this—he has a hand in everything—before a video starts to play.
It’s of the sidewalk outside the Flea and Hound, right on the precipice of twilight, with two girls announcing that ‘Lord Christopher’ is inside and debating whether to try to coax him into a threesome.
Before they can make a decision, the door bursts open, and Kit tears past them with at least three PPOs on his tail, and the girls watch, their mouths hanging open and the camera fumbling as they try to capture his getaway.
They only manage to catch the very end of it, as he ignores the car waiting for him at the curb and takes the corner at a sprint instead.
Frowning, I replay the video. There’s no sign of blood anywhere, and the other bystanders don’t seem alarmed or startled by anything beyond Kit’s sudden appearance. So why is he—
The answer hits me like a punch to the gut, and for a split second, I can’t breathe.
He knows I went after him. Or that I did something reckless, at the very least, and by now he knows I’m missing. And he is terrified.
“That was the last anyone’s seen of him in public,” says Guy as he returns his mobile to his pocket. “He was never the target, Evangeline.”
Because I am. I have been from the start, and suddenly I understand why Singh has kept me under lock and key, hidden from our predators while Kit’s been free to roam. He knew. Somehow, he understands Guy better than any of us.
“Why am I here?” I say, returning the peas to my jaw. It’s growing more and more painful to speak, and I need the swelling to go down.
“Funny,” says Guy, and he gestures for me to sit. “I’d like to ask you the very same question. Why are you here? In Oxford, with Lord Clarence?”
I ease down into the leather chair. The laptop is still open, the desktop still bright, and there are plenty of folders and files on display—bait, no doubt. But I refocus on Guy and reach for a strange little puzzle box near the laptop instead, fiddling one-handed with its sliding pieces.
“I don’t know if you read the news,” I say, moving my jaw as little as possible, “but Lord Clarence and I’ve been dating for a while. Sometimes we visit each other. Wild concept, I know.”
Guy’s mouth twitches. “According to the media, you’re supposed to be in America right now, with your head buried in the sand.”
“I’d be pretty bad at hiding if everyone knew where I was,” I say, toying with the box. The pieces don’t fit together the way I expect them to, and I turn it over in my hand, trying again from a different angle.
Guy stares at me as if he can see right through my caginess, but I ignore him, focusing on the puzzle. The more I try to open it, the less it all makes sense, and I sigh, setting it back on the desk.
“What’s your name?” I blurt. “Your real name. None of this ‘Guy Fawkes’ shit.”
He tilts his head. “Out of all the questions you could ask me, that’s what you want to know?”
“I’m just getting started.”
He considers me for a moment longer, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. “John.”
I snort. “I know John Johnson is an alias for Guy Fawkes. Try again.”
“I didn’t say John Johnson,” he says. “Just John. Why do you prefer Evan to Evangeline?”
This takes me a moment to process—not the question itself, but the implication behind it.
No one outside of my immediate circle calls me Evan in the UK.
The media refers to me by plenty of nicknames—some more creative than others—but Evan has never been one of them.
“Because Evangeline sounds pretentious. Did Kit tell you that?” I say, even though I know he didn’t.
Kit, more than anyone else, is extremely careful with how he refers to me in public, even to his supposed friends.
“Let’s just say you and I have a mutual acquaintance,” says Guy, and my breath catches in my lungs.
Ben.
“Do we?” I say with careful neutrality. “I didn’t realize we ran in the same circles.”
A faint smile crosses his lips, and as he drums his fingers against his elbow, I notice a gold signet ring on his pinky—the kind of ring that only nobility and their spawn seem to wear in the UK.
The kind of ring Kit wears. The kind of ring my father and uncle wear.
And definitely not a piece of jewelry a violent terrorist would wear simply out of habit.
I must stare a split second too long, because he slips his fingers behind his arm, hiding the ring from view. “I’ve always wondered how you and Lord Clarence ended up together. The king’s daughter with a vocal republican. I certainly didn’t have you pegged as an antimonarchist.”
“You must really not pay attention to the news, then,” I say with as much amusement as I can muster. “According to the media, I’m practically the face of the Abr.”
Now that I’ve broached the topic, his expression returns to neutral, and he studies me with an intensity that makes me want to look away. “And are you?” he says, quieter now. “The face of the Abr?”
“Have you seen me on any posters lately?” I toy with the hem of Kit’s cardigan, and when a loose thread starts to unravel, I idly wrap the yarn around my finger.
“I don’t like the monarchy. I think it’s outdated, classist, obscene, and offers nothing of real value to anyone—either the people forced to live it or the people consuming it like it’s reality TV.
It’s tradition for tradition’s sake, and with the funds it takes to keep it going, we could probably solve homelessness and food poverty in a matter of months. ”
This seems to pique his interest, and he moves to the desk, perching on the edge and picking up the handheld puzzle I’ve left unfinished. “And yet you’re the daughter of a king.”
“And yet,” I echo. “But while I don’t care about crowns and thrones, I do care about my family. And there’s nothing in this world that could tempt me to try to blow them up. Especially when I was in the building, too.”
“A solid argument.” His smirk of a smile is back, and with two hands, he works the puzzle box like he’s familiar with every millimeter of its metal frame. “I can see why Lord Clarence likes you. He’s very much of the same mindset, and I daresay you make a good pair.”
I raise my eyebrows as the yarn continues to unravel. The hem hasn’t changed, though, and I realize it’s a patch of some sort. “I had no idea he didn’t like the monarchy until a few weeks ago, so I really hope that has nothing to do with why he’s dating me.”
Guy chuckles, and it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “If you’re free to attend Oxford next year,” he says, “I would be quite interested in having you join Fox Rex. We’ve never had royalty among us before. Lord Clarence is about as close as we’ve ever gotten.”
My heart starts to beat a little faster. “I’m not royalty.”
“And with any luck, no one in this country will be soon enough.” He sets the puzzle down, and it’s open now, its complicated pieces twisted to reveal an empty center. “Though I certainly hope no one else has to die in the meantime.”
I can’t tell if this is a threat or not. “How did you do that?” I say, eyeing the box.
“Patience.” He nods to the puzzle. “Every time it closes, it’s a little different. You can never open it the same way twice. That’s what I like about it.”
I start to unravel the yarn around my finger in order to pick up the box, but I feel something underneath the patch in the cardigan—something small, circular, and metallic, almost like a five-pence coin.
Almost, but not quite.
My pulse is pounding in my ears now. I recognize the rough texture of its edge, and without taking my eyes off the puzzle, I slip it into one of the deep pockets of Kit’s cardigan before reaching for the box.
Though I pretend to examine its pieces, all I can think about is the round object, and I set the box back down before my hands start to tremble.
“I’ve never been very good at puzzles,” I say.
“Now that, I suspect, is a lie,” says Guy, and he starts to reassemble it. “Would you be interested, then? In Fox Rex?”
A droplet of water drips from the bag of peas, perfectly in tandem with a bead of sweat that runs down my spine. “It depends,” I say. “If Dylan is your best and brightest…”