I scribbled a note about it on a piece of paper and tacked it to the board. Maybe India could be our first stop, if we ever figured out how to get out of Paris.
For just a second, I pictured allowing myself to trust the Saxons. With their resources, we could go anywhere. And, whispered a little voice in the back of my head, I’d really be part of their family. My family. I’d been trying not to think about how badly I wanted that, but it was like any craving—the more I denied it, the worse it got.
No matter what, it wasn’t worth risking my mom’s life, said my logical side. But would it really be that much of a risk?
I scrubbed my hands over my face. I couldn’t do this anymore today. I had to at least try to sleep.
I took out the brown contacts disguising my purple eyes and snuck into the dark bedroom.
Jack had made up my slim, hard bed this morning, tucking the blankets in to form precise corners, the pillow fluffed and centered. Just as perfectly as he made our beds every day, like he washed every dish, like he patrolled the neighborhood for anything out of the ordinary on a down-to-the-minute schedule. Everything was tidy and in its place, including him, a dark lump under the covers in a sliver of moonlight, sleeping. Just like he was supposed to be, just like he was every night while I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Thinking, worrying, trying to shut off my brain long enough to close my eyes without seeing terrible things behind my eyelids.
I was mentally preparing myself for another long, restless night when Jack stirred. In the dim light, the whites of his eyes glowed as he blinked once, twice. His covers lifted, and he moved to the edge of the mattress, leaving a me-sized space next to him on the bed that was barely big enough for one person.
I hesitated only a second before bypassing my own bed and crawling gratefully into his, my head on his chest and his arm tight around me. That night, I didn’t have to stare at the ceiling long at all.
The next morning, on the first day of the third week, I woke up still in Jack’s arms. He opened his eyes when I sat up. “G’morning,” he said sleepily, his hair matted down on one side. I fought the urge to pull my fingers through it.
“Good morning.” I don’t know whether it was finally getting a little sleep or being reminded that, even if we weren’t technically in a relationship, Jack really did care about me and would never suggest anything he thought was dangerous, but all of a sudden, I knew what I had to do. There was only one thing that made sense. “We have to go to the Saxons,” I said.
CHAPTER 2
My father must have had a jet on standby. By early afternoon, just hours after I’d called him, Jack and I were at Heathrow Airport, and my stomach was churning from more than the plane ride. We disembarked to find a sleek black helicopter waiting for us on the tarmac.
“Miss West, I presume. And Jack Bishop.” The pilot gave Jack a quick once-over, and I could see in his eyes that it wasn’t just the Saxons who disapproved of Jack running off with me. Everyone who worked for them was so loyal—what Jack had done was unthinkable.
I glanced at Jack, who, for the first time, looked a little uncertain about this plan.
A Keeper—which was what Jack and Stellan were to the Saxons and the Dauphins respectively—were more than employees. A Keeper was a combination of security director, adviser, and personal assistant. As close to a family member as an employee could get. There were only two Keepers per family—one older and established, and one second-in-command, an apprentice who was preparing to take over when the older Keeper could do longer do his job . . . or if anything happened to him. That was Jack and Stellan. Both Keepers did the jobs the family didn’t trust to anyone else. When a family’s Keeper suddenly disappeared with one of those jobs—in this case, me—it wasn’t taken lightly.
Not to mention the fact that anything romantic between employees and family members was taboo enough to warrant termination—the Circle’s euphemism for killing rule breakers. Even though Jack and I should be safe on that front now, the pilot’s glare made me fidget.
But his gaze slid to me. “There’s been a last-minute change of plans. You’ll be meeting Miss Lydia in the city before returning to the estate.” He handed me huge yellow earphones. “Please, Miss West, make yourself comfortable.”
A moment later, I was gripping the arms of the seat as I watched the ground shrink away below. We rose quickly over fields of green and yellow toward the city of London, which grew closer by the minute. Though it had a river running through its center like Paris, London looked newer and more metropolitan. More gleaming skyscrapers, wider streets, bigger boats sailing down the wide river. The city stretched away as far as I could see.
We zipped over squares of bright green parks, a white Ferris wheel that looked small enough to scoop up with my ring finger—“That’s the London Eye,” came Jack’s voice through my headset—then a bridge straight out of a Dickens novel—“Tower Bridge,” Jack said as it hinged open from the center to let a cruise ship pass beneath.
Paris had come to feel so familiar that being in this new city was more of a shock to my senses than I expected. We passed over Big Ben, Parliament, the British Museum, all names I’d heard a thousand times. My mom would have loved this. One of her favorite things was touring each new city we lived in. And then I remembered with a start that she’d lived in London, too. This was where she’d met my dad.
After what seemed like no time, we dropped onto a rooftop in the city’s center. The rotors were still spinning when Jack swung open the door and helped me down, and I clung to him a little longer than I should have while I got my shaky legs underneath me.
He let go of me abruptly, and I turned to see why. Lydia Saxon was walking across the landing pad. My sister.
I’d only met Lydia once, at the Eiffel Tower ball, where I first realized the Saxons were my family. In the past two weeks, though, I’d taken every opportunity to look her up online. The Saxons’ cover story for being so rich and well connected was that they were minor British royalty, and the tabloids reported on their exploits as such. Lydia dragging her twin brother, Cole, away from a fight at a bar. The two of them, him in a proper waistcoat and her in a hat, attending the christening of a new royal baby. Every time I saw a picture of her, it seemed more and more surreal. Seeing her in person was stranger still.