my forgiveness, for no other reason than to see those violet eyes of hers peering up at me as she kneels at my feet.
Blind. Ruined. Mine.
Her chin dips in a curt nod, like she’s reached some internal debate that I’ve not been privy to, before turning to address the room again. “I would never ask you to forget your loved ones. But Mr. Priest is one of us—he’s been one of us before an us even existed—which means that he stays, whether you like it or not, and he does so under my watch.”
“His brother murdered the king!”
At the outburst, I fix my gaze on a round-faced man seated near the curtained windows—as far away, I note, as he can get without stepping out of the room completely. When he catches me staring, color creeps up past the collar of his jumper.
“What?” he snaps, shifting his weight. “I’ve only said what everyone is thinking.” Instead of responding, I keep silent and let him run his mouth. Which he does with obnoxious ease: “We all know what Saxon Priest did at St. Paul’s. Hell, all of England knows!”
The irony being that of the three of us Godwins, Saxon has always been the least likely to betray the royal family. Until Isla, anyway, who did kill the king. Since I never plan to admit the truth, I only ask, “Did you ever meet John?”
A strangled noise emerges from the bloke’s mouth like he’s appalled at my using the king’s given name. Still, he responds exactly how I expected him to—he has that sullen, holier-than-thou look about him—and bounces up from the chair to straighten to his full height. Which is still a head shorter than I am.
“I saw him once,” he boasts, puffing out his chest, “up in Manchester.”
“And did you speak to him? Say hello? Do anything besides fawn over him from two blocks over while he ignored your existence?”
“Well, no.” The wanker shrinks backward. “But he’s the—”
“Then don’t waste your breath defending him.”
There’s a collective gasp from around the room, and I almost bark out a laugh. All those horrified expressions . . . they’d know real horror if they ever learned the truth about their precious king. Murdering Pa, scarring Saxon when he’d only been a boy. At my side, my hand curls into a fist. No, a man like John doesn’t deserve reverence. He doesn’t even deserve the air we breathe.
If Isla hadn’t done him in, someone else would have soon enough.
And it may have been you to pull the trigger.
I grit my teeth. Flick my gaze from man to man, then to the only other woman besides Rowena. “For whatever it’s worth,” I edge out, forcing my hand to relax before anyone misinterprets the gesture as a threat, “Saxon didn’t assassinate the king. He might have thought about doing it a million times over, but it wasn’t him.”
“You say that like you know who did it.”
I glance over at the woman. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed. She sits on a bench before the grand piano, studying me like I’m the devil come out to play. “Do you?” she prods angrily. “Do you know who killed the king?”
“Does it really make a difference?”
She jerks back like I’ve delivered a physical blow. “Yes,” she hisses, “of course it does.”
“Then yes, we have a suspect in custody.” A small pause. “And no, it isn’t Saxon.”
“But your brother did kill my father at The Octagon. I saw the pictures Jack took from the upper gallery. I know what really happened there.”
Rowena’s shoulders visibly stiffen. Behind her back, her linked fingers separate into individual fists like she’s two seconds away from throwing hands and wrangling everyone into their separate corners.
I don’t let her step forward.
Touching my fingers to her shoulder, I bypass her on my way to the piano. “Dr. Sara Grafton, am I right?”
The woman visibly flinches. “How do you know my name?”
“Because I know every person who died that day.” Because I’ve spent hours trying to make a tangible connection between every person at The Octagon and Rowena and found none. Still haven’t found any. Although it’s becoming increasingly obvious, just by standing in this room, that Rowena cares less about recruiting people with tactical experience and more about giving these misfits a home.
I don’t allow myself the chance to look over at her.
“Because I know the first job that they ever had out of uni and their favorite take-away. Curry, for your dad, from a place over in Mayfair. I know that