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“WE’RE HERE.”
Powerful buildings and iconic landmarks replaced the rugged landscape of Buckinghamshire’s countryside. There were no trees or sweeping hills, no foxhounds or horses.
London.
“Bet you missed your family, Ms. Weaver.” The policeman driving had tried small talk over the course of our three-hour drive. I’d ignored every topic.
Instead of focusing on grey concrete and overpasses, I thought of Jethro.
Where was he? What were they doing to him?
My emotions split into an unsolvable jigsaw puzzle. I was smooth edges, crooked edges, and awkward corner edges. I was cutthroat and fierce, betrayer and deceiver, loved and lover.
Only a few hours had passed since I’d left Jethro, yet I felt as if I’d been adrift forever.
I have to go back.
I was no longer a girl who would bow to her father and submit to her brother. I wasn’t content with letting others be in charge.
I was a fighter.
And I owed Cut Hawk payment for what he’d done.
A fog rolled in over the busy cog-work city of London as we journeyed through ancient streets and new.
Every streetlamp and road sign spoke of home.
My home.
My old home.
I knew this place. I’d been born here. Raised here. Trained here.
You also met Jethro when you were too young to remember here.
The car came to a halt outside my family’s sweeping Victorian manor. The whitewashed bricks looked fresh and modern. The lilac windows decorated in my mother’s favourite colour. It was quaintly feminine despite its three-story grandeur.
It’s a dollhouse compared to Hawksridge Hall.
I missed the gothic French turrets and imposing size. I missed the richness and danger that breathed in its walls.
I missed Jethro.
The glass of my window on the second floor winked through the grey drizzle, welcoming me back.
The driver pressed the intercom on the wrought iron gate, barring the Weaver Household from the rest of society. We lived in an affluent end of town. No one asked for a cup of sugar here. Everyone guarded themselves behind camera systems and armed fences.
“Yes?”
The moment my father’s voice came through the speaker, vertigo swooped in and held me hostage. The world spun.
“We’re here, Mr. Weaver.”
A crackle then a panicked bark, “Do you have her?”
The driver threw me a smile. “We have her.”
