Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,33

it?” I ask, internally cursing my failed internet searches. How I missed this news bomb, I have no idea. Plus, isn’t Damien the brother that Father Bootham believes works for MI5? There are so many rumors, so many sides to a single story, that I don’t know which way is up or down any longer. “It could have been anyone.”

“Could have, I suppose. It was all hearsay and conspiracy theories until someone leaked his identity. Some police officer. Not much the Mad Priest can do to defend himself now. At least, that’s the word on campus.”

I try to think back to life before my parents died. Much like grasping at straws, the memories feel like they belong to someone else. Mum and Dad visiting me every two months, like clockwork. Walking into my old office each morning and feeling so incredibly accomplished that out of every person in my department, I was the one climbing the ranks the fastest. And Stephen—I don’t miss him, necessarily, but I do miss the touch of a lover, of the warm contentment that comes with intimacy.

England has changed in so many ways, but what’s changed the most is the decided lack of trust.

Opposing views on the Crown have distanced communities until we’re all nothing more than distrustful strangers ready to stab or be stabbed.

If Peter and Josie found out what I did, I’d lose them too.

Softly, I murmur, “I thought you’d support the Priests, alleged king killer and all.”

My brother shifts awkwardly in his chair, flicking his stare over to Josie, who’s watching us like we’re a highlight reel of a high-stakes tennis match. “It’s not that I don’t . . .”

I reach out and lay a hand on his arm. “Just say it,” I tell him, gently, “go on.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he looks down at his untouched stew, indecision flitting across his features. “It’s not like I back the royal family.”

“None of us do,” Josie puts in, going for another spoonful of food. “It’s because of the king that Mum and Daddy are dead.”

Even though I agree wholeheartedly with her, my heart twists at the utter conviction in her voice. I wouldn’t wish this life on her, on my brother. I wouldn’t wish this life on me either.

Peter pulls away, leaning back in his chair with his arms linked over his chest. “I think it’s risky, is all,” he says flatly. “Going to the protests is one thing. We’re anonymous there. The police don’t know my face or yours or even Josie’s. They can’t track us back home. We could pack our belongings tomorrow, if we wanted, and move to the Outer Hebrides. No one would stop us.”

I swallow, thickly. “Fair point.”

His lips thin as he shakes his head sharply, like he’s coming to some unwanted conclusion in his head. “But you working for the Priests? Already, two out of the three of them have targets painted on their backs. How long until one ends up on yours? A month? Six months? All of this is only going to get worse and I-I can’t do this without you, Isla.” His voice cracks, the syllables emerging strangled. “We can’t do this without you. I don’t even want to fathom it.”

Hell.

Feeling the prick of tears, I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, this time to stem the inevitable flow. I’ve already put my family in an impossible situation by allowing rage to fuel me. As a five-year-old girl, I can remember playing with dolls done up in the then-Princess Margaret’s likeness. I waved the Union Jack flag with pride and often wore clothes with it stitched into the fabric. I looked forward to every summer, while in primary school, when we took the train down from York to visit Buckingham Palace.

And the summer that Mum and Dad brought me to Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh? I nearly collapsed with anticipation because Mary, Queen of Scots—my favorite of all our monarchs—had lived there some five centuries ago. The blood that stained the floor from where Lord Darnley murdered her private secretary, David Rizzio, damn near sent me into a tizzy of squeamish delight.

But that life feels so far removed from this one that it’s impossible to pretend, for even a second, that I’m the same girl geeking out over British history.

This is history in the making. One day, some little girl will study the time when the British monarchy was finally threatened—and there will be people on the winning side of history