come in here and in a matter of minutes—seconds—try to change her life. Order it around. ‘Just a minute,’ she told the agents stiffly, and turned back to the kitchen, Christian at her side.
‘Mommy—’ Christian tugged at her leg ‘—who are those men? Why are they so…’ he paused, his voice trembling ‘…so scary?’
‘They don’t mean to be,’ Phoebe said before she thought I’ll be damned if I apologise for them. ‘Anyway, I’m not scared of them.’ She tried to smile, although like her son she felt the fear, crawling, insidious.
Why were those men here? What did they want?
She took a deep breath, forcing herself to think calmly. Coolly. Undoubtedly they wanted her to sign some paper, relinquishing her rights to Anders’s money. He’d obviously had a lot of it, even though in their few weeks together he’d squandered his stipend with shocking ease. His father, King Nicholas, had insisted on his son’s abdication, yet he’d still kept him well provided for with what mattered—champagne and women.
There was no reason to panic, to be afraid. Yet even as Phoebe told herself this, she felt the fear creep in and wind around her heart. She knew how much power the royal family had. Or, rather, she didn’t know, couldn’t fathom it, and that was what scared her. They were capable of so much. She’d seen it in the way they’d cut Anders out of the royal family as ruthlessly as if wielding scissors. She’d felt it in Leo’s cold stare.
‘Mommy—’
‘I can’t explain it all now, Christian.’ Phoebe smiled down at her son, ‘but I don’t want you to be afraid. These men have a little business with me, and I need to deal with it. You can stay with Mrs Simpson for a little while, can’t you?’
Christian wrinkled his nose. ‘Her place smells like cats. And I want to stay with you.’
‘I know, but…’ Mindlessly Phoebe stroked Christian’s hair, still soft as a baby’s. Like the little boy he was, he jerked and squirmed away. ‘All right,’ she relented. Perhaps it was better if Christian stayed with her. ‘You can come.’ She tried to smile again, and managed it better. She felt her calm return, her sense of perspective. She didn’t need to panic or fear. She’d built a life for herself here, felt it shining and strong all around her, and took courage from that knowledge. The past receded once more, as it was meant to do, as she needed it to.
A few minutes, perhaps an hour at the Amarnesian Consulate, and this would all be forgotten. Her life would go on as planned.
She linked hands with Christian, and it was a sign of his nervousness that he let her. Resolutely she turned back to the government agents standing in the doorway like overgrown crows.
‘I’ll just gather a few things, and then we can be on our way.’ She took another breath, injected a certain firmness into her voice. ‘I’d like to resolve whatever discussion is necessary as soon as possible, and be home for dinner.’
Their silence, Phoebe reflected, was both ominous and eloquent.
It only took a few minutes to pack a bag with a few snacks and toys for Christian, and then she followed the men down the narrow stairs to the street. Mrs Simpson, in a frayed dressing gown and carpet slippers, poked her head out as they descended, her expression curious and a little worried.
‘Phoebe, is everything all right?’ she called, and Phoebe’s voice sounded rusty as she cleared her throat and replied as cheerfully as she could,
‘Yes, fine.’ She tried a smile, but felt it slide right off her face. She turned away, clutching Christian to her, and willed her racing heart to slow.
A sedan that screamed discretion with its tinted windows and government plates idled at the kerb, and another dark-suited agent exited the car with smooth assurance and ushered Phoebe and Christian into the back.
As she slid into the soft leather interior and heard the door’s lock click into place, she wondered if she was making the biggest mistake of her life, or just being melodramatic.
She’d sign a paper, she’d relinquish whatever rights to money that they wanted, and then she’d go home, she repeated to herself in a desperate litany. And, Phoebe added grimly, forget this had ever happened.
The sun was setting, sending long, golden rays over the mellow brick townhouses and tenements of Greenwich Village as the sedan purred through the neighbourhood’s narrow streets, the pavement cafÉs and funky boutiques possessing only a scattering of patrons on this chilly November day.
Christian sat close to her side, his expression closed yet alert. Phoebe felt a sharp pang of pride at the way he composed himself. He knew she was feeling as afraid as she was…except she was determined not to be afraid.
That time had passed.
She turned towards the window and watched as the narrow streets of the Village gave way to the wider stretch of Broadway, and then, as they headed uptown on First Avenue, to the broad expanse of the United Nations concourse. Finally the sedan pulled onto a narrow side street wreathed with the flags of various consulates, stopping in front of an elegant townhouse with steep stairs and a wrought-iron railing.
Phoebe slipped out of the car, still holding Christian’s hand, and followed the agents into the Armanesian Consulate. Inside it felt like a home, an upscale one, with silk curtains at the windows and priceless, polished antiques decorating the foyer. Phoebe’s footsteps were silenced by the thick Aubusson carpet.
As they entered, a woman in a dark suit—was it actually a uniform for these people?—her blonde hair cut in a professional bob, started forward.
‘Madame Christensen,’ she murmured. ‘You are expected.’ She glanced at Christian, who clenched Phoebe’s hand more tightly. ‘I can take the child—’
Phoebe stiffened at the words. ‘No one is taking my son.’
The woman flushed, embarrassed and confused, and glanced at Erik Jensen, who hovered at Phoebe’s shoulder.
‘There is a room upstairs, with every comfort,’ he said quietly. ‘Toys, books, a television.’ He paused diplomatically. ‘Perhaps it would be better…’
Phoebe bit her lip. She should have insisted on leaving Christian with Mrs. Simpson and spared him this. Yet she hadn’t wanted to be parted with him then, and she didn’t now. Even more so she didn’t want Christian to witness any unpleasant altercations with some palace official determined on making sure she received nothing from Anders’s death.
‘All right,’ she relented, ‘but I want him brought back down to me in fifteen minutes.’
Jensen gave a little shrug of assent, and Phoebe turned to Christian. ‘Will you be…?’
Her little boy straightened, throwing his shoulders back. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, and his bravery made her eyes sting.
She watched as he followed the dark-suited woman up the ornately curving stairs before turning resolutely to follow Jensen into one of the consulate private reception rooms.
‘You may wait here,’ he told her as Phoebe prowled through the elegantly appointed room, taking in the gloomy portraits, the polished furniture, the Amarnesian insignia on everything from the coasters to the curtains. ‘Would you like a coffee? Tea?’
