Royal Blood by Aimée Carter

Author:Aimée Carter [Carter, Aimée]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2023-03-07T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

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THE UPPER FLOORS of Windsor are, as far as I can tell, mostly devoted to office space. Kit and I pass the conference room where I sat across from Alexander the night the news of my existence broke, and as we head down a particularly long stretch of hallway, I recognize Louis’s office. We stop twenty feet away, in front of a door that doesn’t look any different from the rest, and when Kit tries the handle, it doesn’t budge.

“Locked,” he says with a sigh. “We’ll have to slide the packet under the door and hope for the—what are those?”

I pull my lockpicks from my pocket and nudge him aside. I’ve done this twice now, after all, and surely the locks in the UK aren’t so different from the ones in the States. The tension wrench is easy enough to maneuver, and as I hold my breath, the tiny springs inside the lock give way until I hear a soft click.

Kit stares at me. “Is that part of the standard curriculum at American boarding schools?”

“If it was,” I say as I open the door, “I might’ve actually paid attention once in a while.”

I turn on the light, revealing an office crammed with a tiny desk, chair, and filing cabinet. It’s small—too small for the King’s private lawyer, I think, until I see the nameplate on the desk: Assistant to R. Wiggs.

Kit, at least, seems to know where he’s going, and he strides across the room and tries another doorknob. This one turns with ease, and I follow him as we step into a larger office with a life-sized portrait of my father hanging on the wall.

“Wow,” I say, eyeing the painting. “Not sure I’d want my boss staring at me all day while I’m trying to work.”

“He’s unavoidable, I’m afraid,” says Kit as he tries to smooth the crease in the packet. “His face is on our money.”

I circle the office, which is really just a few chairs and a wide desk that overlooks a curtained window. Wiggs has a handful of photos arranged beside his monitor, and I bend down to peer at the cherubic faces of the children I assume are his grandkids.

“All right,” says Kit as he places the list in the middle of the desk. “Now that that’s done, Wiggs will have no excuse—”

“Wait.” I spot a yellow sticky note attached to one of the picture frames. “This better not be what I think it is.”

“What?” says Kit, and he joins me. I grope around for the power button on Wiggs’s ancient monitor, and as it wheezes to life, I pluck the note from the frame and examine it.

“What are you doing?” says Kit cautiously, and from that single question I know he’s never broken a real rule in his life. It’s sweet, and my gaze lingers on him a moment longer than it should before I turn back to the computer.

“Testing my lawyer’s competency,” I say. When the password prompt appears, I quickly

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