“I was SO close to telling her. So close!”

Alfie was sitting in the backseat of a Range Rover next to LC as Brian swerved through traffic. They had just visited Ellie in the hospital. Incredibly she had nothing more than a few bruises from her experience. She was more embarrassed at all the fuss everyone was making—the media was calling her the “Hero Princess” for rescuing the young girl on the bridge.

Alfie had perched at the end of her hospital bed and somehow managed not to tell her that he’d flown over on a magic horse and saved her from drowning. He was still buzzing from his first outing as the Defender—unlike LC, whose face was like thunder.

“I’m rather pleased you didn’t, sir. That was by far the most irresponsible, downright foolish thing I have ever seen.”

“What was I supposed to do? Let her drown? I saved her, didn’t I?”

“I rather think it was Wyvern who did all the saving,” LC sniffed.

Ouch, Alfie thought as he looked out the window and felt his good mood leaking away. It was true. Not that he was going to admit that to LC. He tuned back in to the old man’s rant.

“… and thirdly, absolutely anything could have happened out there. You could have been spotted, and then where would we be?”

Alfie thought about it. “How many people know who the Defender really is?”

“The chief yeoman warder, the thirty-seven yeoman warders, and myself and Brian, naturally,” said the Lord Chamberlain.

“Not the police?”

“No, Majesty.”

“The army?”

“No, sir.”

“The prime minister?”

Brian laughed and slapped the steering wheel. “Might as well call the papers yourself!”

“The internal security services, MI5 and so on, have been an interested party for years now,” said LC. “They know the Defender is real and they’d certainly like to know who he is.”

“Aren’t we kind of on the same side, though? Protecting Britain?” Alfie asked.

“Technically, yes. But MI5 doesn’t take kindly to freelancers.”

Alfie turned it all over in his head. Forty-one people in all who knew about the Defender. It sounded like a lot. All it took was one blabbermouth to blow the whole thing wide open.

“So what’s stopping one of the beefeaters—sorry, yeoman warders—from saying something?”

“Ah, well, sir, we have a secret weapon for that,” said LC.

“Cool. What is it?” asked Alfie. “A potion that stops them from talking? Or, like a laser beam that erases their memories?”

“No. It’s a little something called loyalty.” The old man practically growled the word. “The yeoman warders have been the monarch’s steadfast bodyguards for over five hundred years, and they have always kept their silence. Believe me, if the population at large ever found out about all the foul creatures that threaten these shores, there would be mass panic.”

Alfie shuddered. “Like this Black Lizard thing, you mean? Oh, it’s got a tail now, by the way.”

The Lord Chamberlain frowned as he gazed out at the pedestrians watching the passing motorcade.

“It is changing, becoming more powerful. So far it has struck the Tower, Stonehenge, and under the Thames. It’s as if it is searching for something.”

“I lost my contact lenses once. Turned the place upside down, made a real mess,” said Alfie. But LC’s face was stern. “Yeah, it’s not really the same,” Alfie added.

“The problem is, he’s a crafty so-and-so,” barked Brian from the front. “It’s not like he’s even left us any clues to go on.”

Clues. Something was nagging at Alfie—something he’d seen. The car drew to a halt outside the western entrance of Westminster Abbey, and Brian leapt out to open the door. They were here to attend a rehearsal for the coronation that was due to happen in two short weeks’ time. The church’s two great towers loomed over Alfie as he climbed out and straightened his tie (how he hated ties). He made his way toward the reception committee, a huddle of priests who were bent under their umbrellas. A gray-haired bishop dropped a prayer book and was just bending down to pick it up when a thought struck Alfie. A memory. He stopped and turned back to LC.

“There is a clue! Ellie sent me a video clip of that night at the Tower. It was online.”

LC looked blank. He probably thought “online” meant something to do with hanging his underwear out to dry. Alfie fished out his phone, found Ellie’s email, and clicked on the attachment. LC and Brian studied the shaky footage of the Defender and the Black Lizard fighting at the Tower in front of the Jewel House.

“Yes, yes, we know all this—the yeoman warders gave us a full report,” whispered LC. The priests were peering over at them, puzzled.

“Wait,” said Alfie, “it’s at the end.”

They kept watching until the moment when the Defender sliced off one of the lizard’s scales. It flew off, landed in the old woman’s wheelchair, and was picked up by the girl who was with her.

The two men exchanged a hopeful look. “Find her,” LC ordered Brian.

Before Alfie could protest, Brian snatched the phone out of his hands, jumped back in the Range Rover, and roared away.

LC ushered Alfie toward the Abbey. “Very well, sir, back to the day job. Big smile. Just pretend you’re normal.”

Alfie plastered on a fake grin. “I’ll do my best.”

Alfie had been inside Westminster Abbey many times before—for weddings, Remembrance Day services, and his father’s funeral, of course—but somehow this time was different. This time the ancient church was being prepared for a coronation—for his coronation. The idea was suddenly overwhelming. The great vaulted ceiling felt even higher and more breathtaking than usual; every monument, memorial, and statue seemed to cast a shadow over him. The names and faces of the country’s most famous rulers, soldiers, scientists, and artists pressed in from all sides, daring him to pretend he was worthy to stand among them. He knew that he wasn’t.

“Just think of it as a play, Alfie.” Professor Lock stepped out from behind King Edward’s Chair, a surprisingly battered-looking, plain wooden throne, on which the monarch sat to be crowned. Alfie smiled. It was a relief to see a friendly face.

The Lord Chamberlain nodded a stiff greeting to the teacher. “We felt that Your Majesty might benefit from some extra historical tutelage before the ceremony.” Alfie noticed LC’s emphasis on “majesty”—he clearly did not approve of Lock’s informal style. But for Alfie it was a welcome breath of fresh air.

“It’s good to see you, sir,” said Alfie. “How are things at the prison? I mean, school.”

“We all very much miss your late-night escape attempts,” said Lock with a wry smile.

“Has Mortimer broken his leg playing rugby yet?”

“Not that I know of.”

“That’s a shame.” Alfie grinned. “What did you mean, a play?”

His teacher looked to the Lord Chamberlain, as if seeking permission to hold the floor. LC nodded and withdrew. Lock continued: “I know it feels like you’re going to be under the spotlight, Alfie, but actually this whole thing isn’t really about you at all. You’re just a prop—a symbol—same as the robes and crowns and even this dusty old chair.”

Alfie knew the professor was trying to make him feel better, but the idea of being “on stage” at all made his knees go weak. “I’ve never really done any acting.”

“Oh, come on, Alfie,” laughed Lock. “I’ve seen you waving at the crowds and smiling. Oscar-winning stuff! Anyway, that’s what rehearsals are for. So, shall we?”

Lock proceeded to guide Alfie through the bizarre sequence of rituals that would make up the coronation ceremony. It was like being back at school, watching his teacher bring to life some chapter from a history textbook, with his easy charisma and boundless knowledge. Even the wizened old Dean of Westminster, who would be leading the service on the day, along with his retinue of clerics and helpers, seemed spellbound by the young professor’s performance.

Lock explained that, like a play, the ceremony had a bunch of different “acts.” They all had very grand names like “the Recognition,” “the Oath,” “the Crowning,” but what they meant in practice was a lot of “face this way, hold this, say that” for Alfie to get his head around.

Next, Alfie had to practice the part of the coronation called “the Anointing.”

“Now don’t be alarmed, Your M-M-Majesty, but before we anoint you with the holy oil, my c-c-colleagues will be placing a c-c-canopy over your head.” The Dean of Westminster’s voice was as shaky as his hands. If he was the one anointing him with oil, then Alfie thought he had better bring a raincoat.

Professor Lock took over again, explaining that the Anointing would not even be filmed—it was considered too sacred, as it was the moment that the monarch’s authority was supposedly conveyed by a higher power. Although, he told Alfie, these days everyone knew that the king only held the throne with permission from the people—they were willing to have a king, as long as that king didn’t have any real power. Alfie thought he detected a hint of disappointment in his teacher’s voice, like this was a sorry state of affairs.

But he also remembered what LC had already told him about this, the most special part of the ceremony—something that even Professor Lock couldn’t possibly know—that the Anointing was when Alfie would fully become the Defender. It would be the moment that ended the turbulent Succession and sealed in the powers that had been swirling around him. How had LC put it? “It’s when you become one with your destiny.”

“My destiny,” Alfie said out loud, without meaning to.

“Destiny?” replied Lock. “Yes, I suppose so, in fact … ” Alfie followed Lock’s gaze as he looked underneath King Edward’s Chair, but there was nothing there. “Ah, of course, it must still be on the way here,” said Lock. Seeing Alfie’s puzzled expression, he explained: “On the day, there will be a large slab of red sandstone underneath your chair. The Stone of Destiny—that’s just one of its names—is kept in Scotland, but no one really knows where it came from originally. It’s figured in the coronation for centuries—but don’t worry about that; it’s not important.”

Alfie’s mind felt like it was going to burst, there was so much crammed into it now. If this was really just a play, then he hoped there would be an intermission. Lock sensed his student’s exhaustion and suggested a break.

Alfie wandered alone through the dim Abbey, past countless tombs and silent, candlelit chapels. He’d been there all day, and the light coming through the stained-glass windows was fading. As he circled back to the other side of the High Altar, he found himself standing in front of a giant monument, tiered rectangular tombs stacked on top of one another like a stone wedding cake. It was ornately carved with gold arches and seemed very old. He wondered who was buried inside the cold stone. The thought made him jumpy. Whose idea was it to fill a place like this with dead bodies?

Professor Lock strolled past and spotted him gazing up at the huge tomb. “The shrine of Edward the Confessor. But you knew that, right?” he teased.

“Well, I guess he’s some great ancestor of mine or something, so I probably should.” Alfie tried to smile, but the darkness of this place was starting to get to him.

“Alfie, I never said how sorry I was about your father. I can only imagine how overwhelming all of this must be for you.” Lock placed a comforting hand on Alfie’s shoulder.

“Understatement of the year, sir. It’s just with everyone telling me what I have to do the whole time, I feel like I’m being … ” Alfie searched for the word, but couldn’t find it.

“… herded?” Lock asked.

It was uncanny how Lock seemed to be able to read his mind. “Sorry, I shouldn’t whine about it. It’s not like I have any choice,” Alfie said.

Lock was looking at him, frowning with concern. Alfie could see that his teacher wanted to say something. “What is it, sir?”

“I’m not sure it’s really my place to say, but … let me show you something.”

Lock led him down an aisle toward another tomb. Two age-pitted statues were lying on top of a bed of black stone, their hands clasped in prayer for eternity.

“Richard the Second and his wife, Anne. In 1399 he did something that had never been done before. He abdicated the throne. Do you know what that means?”

“He gave it up?” Alfie guessed.

“Exactly. Some say he was forced to; others claim that he stepped aside. Poor old Dickie wasn’t in the best of health and we historians are still arguing about whether it was for the best.”

Lock leaned against the tomb and looked at Alfie. He checked the aisle to see if they were being overheard.

“My point is, no matter how backed into a corner you feel, there are always choices in life, even for you … ‘It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.’ ” Alfie’s teacher smiled, kindly. “Do me a favor and think about what that means.”

Alfie nodded. “The captain of my soul. I like that … ”

Raised voices split the silence as the Lord Chamberlain hurried toward them. “Excuse me, Professor Lock. I’m afraid I need to borrow His Majesty. Something urgent has come up.”

“By all means.” Professor Lock smiled, courteous, but looked at Alfie. “We’ll talk again, Alfie. You’re the captain, remember.”

Frowning again at the professor’s use of the king’s first name, the Lord Chamberlain ushered Alfie down the aisle and out of the Abbey.

Outside, the evening was cool and damp. Brian opened the door of the Range Rover and bundled him inside. In seconds they were careering through traffic. Alfie was annoyed and tired. All he wanted was something to eat and then a solid eight hours of sleep.

“What’s the rush?”

“The girl in your video—her name is Hayley Hicks,” said Brian. “British citizen. Fourteen years old. Lives on an estate in Watford. Problem is, we aren’t the only ones who know about her.”

“What do you mean?” asked Alfie.

Brian accelerated through a red light as the outriders blocked the side roads. “I got a tip-off from a mate in MI5. They’ve tracked her down and they’re on their way to pick her up right now. If we’re ever going to find out what that creature is and how we can defeat it, we need to get to her first and make her hand over the lizard’s scale.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Alfie, gripping his armrest. “But won’t people wonder why we’re driving off to some estate in Watford?”

LC, who had been fiddling nervously with his watch, finally piped up. “We’re not going there, Majesty. You are. And you’re not going by car … ”