against a wall and plow my fist into his face. One glance at Saxon reveals that even my stoic brother is struggling to remain impartial.
But Rowena is no damsel in distress. So I force myself to stand sentry, even though I’d love nothing more than to end Carrigan, and I remind myself that she’s waited years to unburden her soul. My turn will come, and when it does, there won’t be much of Edward Carrigan left to scrape together.
“You’ve left me to drown my entire life,” she says, breathing hard. “And when I was no longer of value—when I chose to leave this world of ruin that you’ve created—you turned your back on me like I was nothing.”
“It’s politics, Rowan.” He shakes his head with a dismissive grunt. “Sometimes bad deeds are the foundational blocks to all things good. And while I’d love to stand here and discuss the philosophies of moral decency with you, I’m reached my daily quota for—”
“Love is sacrifice.”
“What?”
“Love is sacrifice,” she repeats, lifting her chin with queenly defiance, “and you, Father, are the one to be sacrificed this time around.” She sends me and Saxon a hard glance. “Take him.”
We move in tandem.
The muzzle of Saxon’s rifle is shoved against the prime minister’s back. In the same breath, I reach for my wire coil and quickly tie Carrigan’s wrists together. Loose sheafs of paper float to the floor like confetti caught in a cross-breeze and his leather bag hits the ground with a heavy thud.
“Rowan,” he barks, thrashing wildly against me and Saxon. “You’ll release me right now—do you hear me? You’ll release me—”
“The same as you released me from my room twenty years ago?” She snatches up the bag and pulls the strap over one shoulder. “Or maybe you mean the way your old mate Silas Hanover released me after you failed to rescue him from Broadmoor Hospital?”
“Hanover?” For the first time, the prime minister’s voice carries a trace of unease. His gaze darts to me—and doesn’t waver. “Is this a joke?” he demands. “Your way of striking back at me after what I did to you?”
I make a point to shove my face close to his when I growl, “You’ve played a fancy game of trickery all these months. Sending your men after me at The Bell & Hand, poisoning me, and then burning down the place down just the other week. But—”
“I didn’t burn down the pub.”
Saxon releases a low chuckle. “You’re a liar, Carrigan.”
“I’m the liar? Your family is nothing but—”
“What deal did you offer Silas Hanover to get him out of Broadmoor?” Rowena asks, her eyes narrowing on her father. “Because we all know that you promised him something.”
“I don’t enjoy being played the fool, daughter.”
I grit my teeth. “You may have been able to get away with what you’ve done to me, but the same can’t said for the hundreds of anti-loyalists that were held at Broadmoor Hospital. So, let me ask you this one more time—what were the terms for Hanover’s release?”
“And what will you do for me in return?”
Saxon releases a tight growl. “Don’t think that I won’t pull the trigger.”
“If you care at all about your life,” Rowena bites off, “then tell us what we want to know.”
“He agreed to do whatever I wanted for just the death of one man. I could have made it happen sometime in the last ten years, but Hanover proved more resourceful in Broadmoor than he ever would have outside its walls.” The prime minister’s laugh is low and rough. “Who could blame me for letting him rot away in there?”
It’s an unexpected confession.
Even more unexpected is when he murmurs, “Take off the helmet.”
“Why?” Saxon growls.
“Because, Mr. Priest, I prefer to look a man in the eye when I tell him a secret.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that Carrigan recognized Saxon. The man couldn’t have climbed to the post of prime minister without a keen eye. With my jaw clenched, I gesture for Saxon to get on with it.
And he does.
The helmet comes off and Saxon’s scarred mouth curves in a sneer. And then Carrigan gives us a slow, uneven smile. “And so here we are in the end, aren’t we? The Priest who killed John. And the Priest who John apparently fathered.” His smile turns lethal. “And, of course, we’re missing one, aren’t we? The third to our trio, and the particular Priest that I promised to an old—”
Footsteps come from behind us.
I turn, rifle raised, and come to a