London’s streets lash by my window. Pubs, double-decker buses, and old gas lampstands blur into a single streak of color. The edge of my seat belt bites into my palms; I clutch its nylon for dear life. I thought I’d adjusted to cars—but it seems that’s only when Anabelle isn’t driving.
Her knuckles grip the steering wheel like iron. She hunches forward in her seat, foot pressed all the way down on the gas pedal. My heart stops with every red light we burst through. It’s nothing short of a miracle that we haven’t been noticed by all the police cars roaming the streets. Though that could be because Anabelle flipped our own blue lights on as soon as she revved the engine.
It reminds me of the day King Edward died, all of these flashing blue lights and neon yellow vests. The throngs of humanity in the streets. Only this crowd isn’t sad or shuffling. There are no tears on their faces. The glimpses I do catch are snapshots of raw, animal emotion. Anger. Fear. Rage.
Their eyes widen as the Jaguar wheels onto the sidewalk. As they scatter, Anabelle swears and jerks the car back toward the street, narrowly clipping the door of a phone booth.
“If we’re going to find Richard, then we have to be in one piece to do it!” My hands twist and strangle the seat belt.
“Sorry!” The princess says, foot still punching hard into the gas pedal. “It’s not like I actually drive these things a lot.”
“I noticed,” I mutter under my breath.
A voice crackles out of the lights and wires of the car’s dashboard. “The bunker has been compromised. Two packages are missing and believed to be in a government-issued Jaguar.”
“They’re looking for us.” Anabelle’s voice is grim as the radio rattles off our license plate number. “Where do we go?”
I hadn’t thought this far ahead. This whole day has been a blur, a horrible dream. It just now feels like I’m waking up, facing the reality of it all. In the space of a few hours my entire world has crumbled. I’d put all bets on Titania, but Julian Forsythe was right: Faery queens are cruel creatures. My lifetimes of service to the Guard, Richard’s sleepless weeks lobbying for her survival—none of these mattered to Titania. She folded when we needed her most.
And now what do I have?
An empty hand.
I lost Richard. I lost it all.
And yet, somehow, I’m not surprised. I knew it was coming. I dreamt it.
I look down at the bandage on my arm. The wound which keeps breaking open every night, no matter how tight I bind the gauze. As if the ragged nails Guinevere sinks into my arm every nightmare are real . . .
“You found it. But blind eyes still need to see,” I whisper the faagailagh’s words back to myself.
It seems Guinevere’s mind isn’t as far gone as Alistair might have me think. She knows something.
There’s only one place I’m going to find answers, and it’s not in London. It’s in the bowels of the deepest, darkest place I’d hoped never to see again.
It’s time to return to the Labyrinth.
Anabelle’s driving doesn’t improve in the countryside. Our tires shred gravel and dirt, coasting over potholes and stripping leaves off endless rows of hedges.
I felt safer on the Kelpie.
It’s dark by the time we reach the coast. The sleepy town we pull into is lit up like a Christmas village: warm-glow windows and sealed doors. It’s still long before midnight, but the streets are empty. Long stretches of power lines and lonely storefronts. The feel of the sea rides on the air: life and death and salt and gray.
With a twist of Anabelle’s wrist the Jaguar’s engine dies. We both sit for a moment, soaking in the heat of the car. For the first time in a day I feel like I can breathe.
I look over at the princess. Lion-mane hair, eyes crusted with day-old makeup. Her fingers are still wrapped tight around the steering wheel. “Belle. What you did back there . . . in the bunker. To those men . . . You did it before. Didn’t you? At Windsor. With the flower vase.”
“I—” Some color bleeds back into her face. “Yes. But it was an accident. I didn’t mean to break it.”
“But why did you hide it?” I ask.
Anabelle takes a deep breath. She’s staring out the windshield at a pair of seagulls feasting on a pile of fried fish wrapped in newspaper. “Richard made me promise not to tell.”
When she says his name my stomach feels gutted.
“It’s been happening to him too.” She keeps talking. Still staring at the bedraggled, huddled birds. “Ever since the first Lights-down. It’s just been little accidents. I had an argument with Mum while we were addressing coronation invitations and the calligraphy ink exploded everywhere. And then the vase . . .”
My throat squeezes tight. I think of all the times we were together. All the times he stayed quiet . . . “Why? Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He didn’t want to worry you. And he was afraid . . .” Her voice wilts. “He was afraid you would get hurt.”
I am hurt. Hurt that something so big, so important was happening to Richard. That the rift of secrets between us was so much larger than I realized.
What else didn’t he tell me?
Will I ever have the chance to find out?
“At first I thought it was hiccups: random spurts. But then I realized it happened whenever I got upset. I felt it rising in Westminster Abbey and the bunker. I was holding it back, until Protection Command started taking you away,” Anabelle says. “That was the first time I actually tried to use it.”
“Don’t.” My eyes bore straight into the princess’s. “Don’t try it again.”
“But—”
“Magic isn’t something you play with.” I cut her off. “It’s wild. Dangerous. If you don’t know what you’re doing, it can go very, very wrong.”
I know what I’m saying is harsh, but I’m not thinking straight. My thoughts are tangled, looping me back through the past. Reminding me how—ages and ages ago—the mortals gleaned the Fae’s magic and made it their own. They twisted it into dozens of variations, both brilliant and brutal. Many, many lives were destroyed by such infinite power in such finite hands.
There were very few humans strong enough to bear the burden of magic. In the end, it even ruined King Arthur.
A lone streetlight slants through the tinted windshield, wraps around the princess like a halo. Something about how harsh it is against her face shows me just how young she is.
Just seventeen. How easy it is for me to forget. Despite her brave, steel-hide moments and her almost supernatural ability to have everything perfect, Anabelle is still a fragile thing. A glass ballerina, one fall from cracking.
She doesn’t—can’t—know the power she wields. Not yet.
“I’m sorry,” I say slowly. “I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just . . . it’s very important that you keep things under control. If you don’t, a lot of people could get hurt.
“I want you to promise me you won’t use it. Even if we find ourselves in a bad situation,” I add, “try to hold it back, like you did in the bunker. We’ll find another way.”
Anabelle tears her eyes from mine.
“Promise,” I say again, my voice stretched.
The princess’s words come out quiet. “I promise.”
“We’ll get this sorted. We’ll find Richard,” I tell her.
“What are we doing here?” Anabelle nods out into the ghost village, where the sign for the White Dragon Pub swings back and forth in the breeze.
“We’re going to the Isle of Man. There’s a sailboat docked on the edge of town. Ferrin and Lydia used it to take me there last time.”
“How is this going to help us find Richard?”
“It’s—complicated.”
“Then uncomplicate it.” Anabelle brings her forehead down onto the steering wheel. “I’m going a little bit insane here. My brother has just been kidnapped and I’ve been spewing magic like a busted fire hydrant. Plus I’ve just driven a stolen car all the way across the bloody country. I just need something. Anything.”
“Look, I know this will sound . . . strange. But that dream I told you about this morning. I think someone sent it to me. They were trying to warn me that this was going to happen.”
“And this someone is on the Isle of Man?”
“Under it. In a prison for Fae.”
“Wait—” The princess sits up straight in her seat. “What? A prison?”
“There’s a maze of tunnels under the island. Mab used it to trap her enemies and anyone she disliked.” I give her the short version. I’m starting to squirm against the leather seat, watch the road into town for headlights. We shouldn’t stay here too much longer.
“And you think one of these prisoners has answers?” Anabelle presses. “You think they know where Richard is?”
I can only hope this trip is something more than grasping at straws and dreams.
“Something like that. We should get going.”
“Right then.” Anabelle flips down the Jaguar’s vanity mirror and rakes her hair out of her face, back into a tight coil. She smudges sparkle and kohl from her eyes. A few flicks and swishes and she’s a clean slate again. Repelling chaos like a stainproof tablecloth.
She finishes, turns, and looks at me. Ready. “Let’s go sailing.”