Edward is somehow still at breakfast before I am the next morning, and I’m getting up early enough to make it to the Archive for at nine. And he doesn’t seem noticeably tired either; he’s paging frantically through the papers when I slide my tray of porridge onto the table opposite him.

“Morning,” I say. “Any interesting news?”

“Oh, nothing in particular. Just the election results.”

His sarcasm is biting. “Oh. Right. That. So… what happened?”

Edward grimaces. “It’s a mess, is the short version. The King’s Party didn’t win a majority.”

“…ah.” That is indeed a mess. It’s exceedingly rare for that to happen, and it’s generally either the cause or effect of political instability in the Kingdom. “How close were they?”

“Quite. Only half a dozen seats. There’s two different traditionalist parties they could bring on board to get a majority, but the Reformists are only about twenty seats behind the King’s Party and Ariana Carling has been claiming up and down it’s undemocratic to not give them a voice in the government.”

So bad, but not so bad it’s going to lead to an imminent constitutional crisis. Just a government with a slim majority, reliant on the support of at least some of the traditionalists and with strong reformist opposition. “Right. Can I – “

Edward nods and tosses me a copy of the Herald. His summary is an accurate one, though short on details. The main story is the unexpected success of the United Reformists, which comes at least partly from outcompeting the other reformist parties. But they have made noticeable gains from the King’s Party, while the traditionalist vote has remained largely stable.

My breakfast is about half finished by the time I’ve had my fill of election news. “How was last night?” I ask, setting the newspaper aside.

Edward shrugs. “Got it finished.”

“How long did it take you?”

“I finished at about three and thirty.”

“…it’s just gone seven now.”

“I know.”

“You slept for less than four hours.”

“Evidently.”

I blink a few times. This feeling is becoming unfortunately familiar. Edward being able to function on less than four hours’ sleep would explain a fair bit about him, actually. “I shouldn’t even be surprised, should I?”

He laughs. “You slept well, I assume?”

I shrug. “Twice as much as you, but still not enough.” Sometimes it just doesn’t feel fair. “By the way, could you tell Electra why I’m not there early this morning? And that I’ll be there by…” I mentally calculate. “Ten and thirty after midnight.”

Edward nods. “I’m not sure she’ll like it.”

I think Electra would accept it if I had a good reason. And this is worth it even if she doesn’t. “Well, consider me warned.”

Edward nods, and we return to a comfortable silence while I eat and he reads, occasionally remembering to take a bite or two of toast. After a couple of minutes he sighs and throws his third paper to one side.

“What?” I ask.

“Too much speculation, not enough facts. I want to know what’s happening with the negotiations between the King’s Party and the traditionalists.”

“That’s still going on, though, and the papers can’t exactly give live updates. You could ask your dad?”

Edward shakes his head. “He won’t have time. Said he’d give me details in a few days, but…”

“That’s not now.”

“That’s not now,” Edward agrees. “What’s the point in being a Blackthorn if I can’t get instant updates on the political situation?”

I laugh.

The rest of breakfast is about as uneventful as it comes, and then it’s time to set off for the Archive. I’m alone again: Edward has to meet Electra, Elsie is gone, and neither Elizabeth nor Robin is around to escort me. Elizabeth has at least managed to resolve her housing problem, though the rent she’s being charged is somewhat unreasonable. Getting a loan from a Blackthorn helps with that.

At least I know my way there this time. And the streets feel far safer in the morning when it’s not pouring with rain, even if that feeling is partly an illusion. The weather has changed dramatically since last night, though: the storm has blown over and the skies are clear. It’s a crisp morning, with touches of frost on the grass near the Academy’s main gates but at least I now know warming-spells to make the cold less of a misery.

The Central Ring is busier than normal. I guess that’s to be expected in the aftermath of the election, with Parliament so close. Are the negotiations that will determine the next government going on mere dozens of yards from where I ate breakfast? It’s a surreal thought; perhaps I’m not as used to living in the very heart of the City as I thought.

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It’s not just busier than normal, I realise as I step into it. There’s hundreds of people packed into the space, some of them trying to make their way to and from Parliament or occasionally the Central Bank or the Abbey Royal, while others are just gathered to wait for news, and still others – their shouts echo through the morning air:

“Ariana Carling for Prime Minister!”

“The proposed coalition goes against what the people voted for!”

“We demand transparency!”

“Where is the King?”

It’s not quite a full-fledged protest, but it wouldn’t take much to turn it into one. Dangerous. I wonder if Lord Blackthorn is watching this scene as he watched the protest when we first met, if he has contingencies in place for this turning into something altogether uglier.

And then my mind is not free to wonder any more, because a businessman barges into me and sends me stumbling. I stagger but keep my footing, nearly falling into someone’s back. And suddenly I’m lost, adrift in the currents of the crowd, alone and helpless.

Just like the riot. Just like what happened before. Except now there’s no Edward to save me. Except now –

I shuffle forwards a few steps, carried by the movements of the people trying to get closer to the Parliament building or to the growing group of Reformist activists gathered by the statue of the Mages.

I have to get out of here. Something that should be so simple feels like an impossible task, and I’m suddenly terribly afraid that it will be impossible. That this is the end, after everything I’ve survived.

No. I can’t let that happen, I have to do something, I have to –

Not Malaina. Not that. Charles First-King. Edwin the Just. I force myself to stay calm and keep breathing. I’m aiming for the South Road, but that doesn’t matter right now; any road that leads out of the Ring, then I’ll figure out how to cut through quieter streets to get where I need to be.

But any way out is going against the tide that’s pulling me towards the centre. I can’t hope to fight my way backwards to the North Road and the South is almost completely blocked by the parts of the crowd pressed as close as they can get to Parliament.

Sideways, then, to the East or West. That should be possible. I take another deep breath (Simon the Drunkard. Thomas the Defender.) Then I set off, moving now with purpose. It doesn’t exactly go according to plan; while I manage to get a little further east, I’m towed further north by the crowd until I’m only a yard from the statue of the Mages and the growing group of Reformists there.

And then I trip, or someone accidentally pushes me, or – I’m not sure quite what happens, only that it ends with me sprawled on the ground right besides the statue.

“Miss? Are you okay?” A man’s voice, unfamiliar, concerned.

I blink a few times. The man standing over me is one of the activists, to judge by the deep United-Reformist blue of his coat. He’s tall and powerfully-built, with short curly dark hair.

I scramble to my feet before anyone can knock me over. My knees are stinging, but my body obeys my commands. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Would you like to stay here a moment? We have a little space. You can catch your breath.”

The offer seems a genuine one, but I just want to get out. “Thank you – I really appreciate it – but I should go.”

“Are you sure you’ll…” his voice trails off in a way that’s becoming uncomfortably familiar. “You’re Tallulah, aren’t you?”

“I have somewhere to be – “

“Tell me, what are your thoughts on the result of the election? Don’t you agree that we Reformists deserve a say in how the country is governed?”

I always thought that the pitying looks and the incessant questioning about the Blackthorns were bad. This is worse. “I – “ My body is frozen, but my mind is whirling.

He wants to use me for political gain.

What happens if I say yes? What happens if I say no?

I need to get out of here.

What are the political consequences of my taking a stance here? What are the consequences for me?

I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this.

I need to get out of here.

And finally, my body responds. “I’m very sorry – “ I stutter – “I can’t – “ and before I have a chance to think better of it, I’m plunging back into the depths of the crowd. I’ve found something worse than being lost there.

What if he comes after me? What if I’m too good an opportunity to let slip away?

What if I don’t make it as far as the East Road?

No. I’m going to make it. I have to make it. Eleanor the Bold. I weave and shuffle and push where I have to, edging further away from the statue and closer to the road. It seems to take a small eternity, but suddenly I realise that the crowd around me has thinned and I’m only a few yards away from the edge of the Ring and freedom.

Stars. I almost want to cry with relief. But I’m in public; I can’t collapse, can’t let my guard down. I give myself the luxury of a few seconds standing at the very edge and trying to breathe before I set off on the rest of my journey.

Practical matters first. I didn’t budget for it taking me this long to make it through the Ring, so I’m probably running late, especially since I’ll have to get back to the South Road as well. I should walk quickly. That I can do, at least, and with my heart pounding the way it is it shouldn’t be a problem. I just hope that I don’t encounter any more obstacles.

But once I’m free of the Ring, the City isn’t much busier than normal. And it doesn’t take me too long to cut through a pair of side streets and get back to where I originally wanted to be. I have the route from here memorised; I’ll be fine.

Which, unfortunately, means my mind is no longer filled by immediate concerns.

I never thought my opinion on the election’s results would matter more than anyone else’s. I’m terrified by the realisation that it does. Because I don’t know the right answer. I’ve thought maybe more than most about how I’d change things if I were in power myself, but my ideas don’t fit naturally with any political party.

I’m probably closest to the Reformists, I suppose, but then my best friend is a royalist to the core (or is he? Does he just have that position because it’s essential to his future, or does he really believe in the King’s Party’s ideals? I should ask him.) And while their getting no say in the government despite having won close to as many seats as the King’s Party may feel unfair… that’s how the system works, and I don’t think the system is a bad one.

Besides, my advocating for the Reformist cause would have consequences. I don’t understand enough of politics to see them all clearly, but… I’ve become simultaneously a friend to the Blackthorns and a symbol of resistance against them, depending on who you ask. Some people claim I’m a hero, some claim I’m a monster, some a victim.

There are a hundred different narratives you could fit to my hypothetical declaration of support for the Reformists. The Reformists are against the Blackthorns! Lord Blackthorn is trying to infiltrate the Reformists! Lord Blackthorn is using the Reformists for his own gain! Lord Blackthorn’s son is friends with a Reformist – does this mean there’s a rift between father and son?

Few of those outcomes seem good. Though I guess that depends on who they would be good for. Who do I want them to be good for?

I can’t even answer that.