by Emily Bow
The audacity. She wanted us to help them beat another team. I gave her a look that said exactly what I thought about that.
“We’d better be going now.” Vihaan turned away, his dark eyes searching the room.
Peppa nodded. “Let’s go.”
That gave Wythe and me a small window to get away without them seeing and trailing us. “We need to go.”
“I’ll call for another car.” Wythe’s eyes flashed, and his voice was tight. “I won’t have you in the car with a driver who’d be willing to take a bribe.”
I’d think about how dangerous that was later. The risk. Well, maybe the driver just did it because it was Peppa, not a real threat. But still. The lack of ethics. The lack of fair play. The driver was straight up wrong. “No time.” I pulled Wythe down, so I could whisper in his ear. “Let’s take the tube to Westminster.”
He looked blank. Clearly, he had no idea how to take the underground train to his own neck of the city.
My lips twisted up. “You should really go on a tour of your own city sometime. It’s quite wonderful. Come on, I’ll tell you my brilliant thought on the way.” I hooked my arm in his.
“The guards.” He wore a doubtful expression.
“Your guards should have caught the driver. I trust none of them.” My words were fierce. That had nothing to do with this game.
He grinned and touched a finger to my cheek.
It froze me.
“Where are they?” Peppa’s overloud voice came from the door to the gallery.
Was she already done? Though really, how long did it take to snap a selfie and send in a guess? And when they didn’t get bells and whistles for their ultimate answer either, she must have figured we’d tricked her.
I liked that. It gave me a little peace in this unjust situation. She’d rather cheat than come in second place. If we took second place, at least we earned it honestly. That was something to be proud of. And weirdly, with that acceptance of not winning, I was confident we would win. “Come on.” I grabbed Wythe’s hand, so we could run.
“Kira?” Peppa’s voice sounded out. Someone shushed her.
Obviously, I didn’t answer her. We reached a long row of bookshelves. I pulled Wythe in. Maybe this wasn’t the way to the underground, but we had to lose the other couple first. No way did they deserve to ride on our backs any longer. My heartbeat picked up its pace with my stealthy actions.
“Kira?” Peppa said again.
I stopped and held my finger to my lips. Standing here still with my heart pounding wasn’t going to hide us. I opened a book over my face like I was reading and thrust one at Wythe.
Wythe made a strangled sound.
I looked over the top of my book. “Shh.”
He was holding his book at normal reading level, which defeated the purpose, his face wasn’t hidden at all. His eyebrows were arched, and his cheeks were flushed.
What the…? I dropped my gaze to the book…and it…well… Heat hit my own face. The book was titled something filthy.
He turned the page.
A tri-fold fell from the center, showing a couple in an impossible position. We were in the naughty section of the library. Heat hit me, and my mind went to heated places.
I shoved my book back, grabbed his, and returned it the shelf, too. When the library said it had over fourteen million books, a copy of every book that the UK published, they meant everything. I didn’t know if I was flustered, embarrassed, or turned on. Probably all three. We were not getting caught in here.
“Come on.” I drew him even deeper into the maze of bookcases. At this point, I doubted I could find our way out. But at least the titles weren’t risqué. These were tomes on land masses and agriculture practices.
“Neigh.”
The weird sound pulled my attention off the Farmers’ Almanac.
I went forward.
Ahead of me, on the floor, lay a discarded pink sparkle belt entwined with a blue studded one. I picked them up. Hornicorn fans.
I went farther in, Wythe following.
Masquerade face masks painted as female and male unicorns lay alongside two sets of horns and one discarded rose wreath. Petals led away from the pile.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Smacking sounds sounded.
Peppa’s voice came from several stacks away. “Kira, I know you’re in here. I just want to talk. It would be appropriate if we sat down together. You know there’s nothing with the Austen desk. Right? Kira?”
Yikes, she was close. I stiffened.
“Shhh.” Some patron hushed Peppa, and I cheered them internally.
“Well, you don’t understand…” Peppa argued with the patron. So like Peppa to do that.
We had no choice. We had to go deeper in or risk being spotted. I took Wythe’s hand and turned the corner.
I stopped so quickly he bumped into me and had to grab me to keep from knocking me over. I didn’t mind. I never minded his hands on me.
In front of us lay two abandoned full body unicorn suits.
Slapping sounds came from a row ahead.
Not angry slapping.
Sweaty body-slapping sounds… Knowledge hit me with a weird flush as if I’d just bitten into the apple at the Garden of Eden.
Moans sounded. Soft then louder.
Oh. No.
Neighs.
Yep. I removed two books at eye level and took a peek. Two Hornicorn fans were going at it full speed. I fanned my face, and then shoved the books back.
I knew what had to be done.
My face was pale or heated or both, so I didn’t glance at Wythe as I scooped up the discarded gear…a perfect disguise. Sorry, fans, I have greater need today.
Wythe, catching onto my intent right away, shook his head at me.
Oh, he was doing it. I waved my hand in a fast roll at him, conveying the urgency of the situation. No choice. Be quick.
We zipped on the discarded white fur unicorn bodysuits, donned the masks, and ran, carrying the other gear. He was soon ahead of me. I kept slipping on the smooth tile floor; the cloth hooves made it impossible to stay up. I slid my feet, like I was on ice skates, which gave me better purchase. I skated up to Wythe, who was far ahead of me.
He wore the suit and mask, but the blue studded belt dangled from his hand. Was that where he drew the line? The belt kept humans from seeing a unicorn’s magic. No unicorn would be caught in the human world without it.
I was already warm in the suit, and the weight of the horn weighed me down. “Put it on,” I said, as soon as I caught up to him. I snapped on my own, clicking the little white plastic circles into the holes, leaving sparkles on my fingers. Click. Click. Click. Get with the program, Wythe.
“Why? Just why?”
His tone made me fight a smile, especially as it was emerging from behind the male unicorn mask. The British weren’t supposed to be fun. He was fun. “Put it on.”
“I know where we are. I can get us out a side door. Or find the back.”
His desperate pleas meant nothing. I had the solution. His would risk us being caught. “We’ll blend in if we go out the front, past the unicorn queue. That’s the best way. Like a unicorn gauntlet.”
I couldn’t see his face, but I saw his reluctance in the slow movements of his hands. Our golden hand-hooves covered the back of our hands and were strapped on by an elastic strap over my palms. I had full finger mobility beneath the golden hooves. “Come on, Wythe, do this, blend in, and we’ll be out of here without getting spotted. Five more minutes.” I fought a laugh as I pressured him.
He snapped on the belt as if he were sealing his fate. Snap. Snap. Snap.
I put the slightly crushed wreath of pink roses on, maneuvering it over my horn so it could settle on my shoulders. The scent of roses overpowered me.
“Only one wreath,” Wythe said, his tone dry as if he were disappointed.
I didn’t explain to him the gender dynamic behind the rose wreaths. “Come on.” I skated away.
We rounded the corner. A lone unicorn was typing on her cell phone. She gave us a half-hearted “neigh” and tilted her head to the left so we could tap horns. I clicked with her as I passed and hit Wythe in the arm and pointed so he’d know to do the same. Clink horns and no one would notice us. Refuse to do this unicorn-world mandatory courtesy and he’d draw attention to us. Attention we didn’t need.
With a sick anticipation, my pulse was speeding up at even the thought of getting to the tube station. We were so close. I put the image of the London Underground map in my head. Partly to map-out what line we’d take from King’s Cross to get to Westminster. Partly to block out flashbacks of the unicorns trysting.
Wythe jogged, I slid, and we’d almost made it to the library doors. I was so close. “We’re ‘living literature,’” I said, exhilarated. This was unlike any day I’d ever had.
Wythe snorted.
The line of unicorns had thinned out. Only a few late stragglers were coming into the signing now. Four came through the door where’d we’d be exiting. Four horn taps and we’d be out of here, and then we could disrobe on Euston Road. Success was so close.
We passed the first guy. I leaned in. Horn tap.
Wythe did the same and moved ahead of me. He knew the drill now. He bent down so that the blonde unicorn with the oversized wreath could tap his horn. She neighed and backed up, bent her knee, and held out her hoof instead.
Her hoof!
She jiggled it.
Wythe tilted his head in confusion and his horn almost poked the third unicorn.
He raised his foot covered in the hoof cloth.
My own horn weighed a thousand pounds as I rushed to Wythe. “No!” I said, barely stopping him from touching his hoof to hers.
Chapter 20
The unicorn woman backed up, stomping on the tile in a circle, and neighing loud enough that the sound echoed in my ears.
I shoved Wythe to the door, ignoring the remaining unicorns altogether. I dragged him down the steps to the sidewalk, not even worried about slipping now. I didn’t even know what I was feeling—horror, jealousy, amusement? Probably all three.
Wythe unzipped his costume as we ran and stopped at the first decent beech hedge we came to. “What?” He tossed his discarded onesie over the green border.
I did the same. Belt, suit, mask, horn, wreath of roses. The couple had really gone all out. I hoped security found these and returned them to their naked bodies, but honestly, if you’re going to strip down at the public library you get what you get. Public love comes with public risks.
“What?” Wythe asked again. “Why are you still smiling? You know there’s CCTV, right?”
I laughed, feeling giddy, shoved at my hair that had to be a mess after all that gear, and pointed to the station. “The tube’s just there. We’re going to Westminster Abbey.”
He grabbed my hand, and we hurried in and followed the signs for the Victoria line, tapping in to go through the turnstyle and then down a worn hallway to go underground.
For once, this place didn’t smell like train exhaust and people because I could only smell the lingering fragrance of pink roses in my nostrils. We descended on the escalator, and I kept my gaze on the framed play posters, reining in my bubbling amusement.
“What?” Wythe asked.
I crossed my arm over my waist to hold in any more laughter. “You almost kicked hoofs. It’s like…knocking boots.” I giggled. “Is that a phrase that translates here?”
He scrunched his face.
I could see the meaning click, and I laughed harder.
Wythe half-smiled and touched my hair. The motion, playful and intimate, made my laughter stop. Wythe.
He dropped his hand. “What time does Westminster Abbey close?”
“Six. We’ll make it.”
He looked away and then back, his expression reluctant. “We can switch trains. If you like. I haven’t been on the trains in a long while. But I do know how they work.”
I looked around but didn’t see Peppa or his driver or his guards. “Why would we do that?”
“We’re not going to make it there, put in our final answer, and still make the play. No play, no intern point. Time’s up.”
It was English-crystal clear then, and it sobered me. I could win at class or win at the internship. Not both. I sank back against the blue cushion on the subway wall and leaned into the pole. This was it. Switch lines and go to the West End. Or continue to Westminster. Life rarely let me have two things I wanted. I had to remember that. There was always a choice, a compromise to be made. Screaming into the screeching subway car as it whooshed through the dark tunnel wouldn’t change that. Even though I’d planned. Even though everything should have worked out.
Or could it still? Our glass column picture at the library was a good guess for the ultimate English literature answer. A great guess. My insides prickled. Why was I even thinking of going on to Westminster to throw another literary location at the professor? I didn’t even need this class.
Wythe was looking at me as I reasoned. He didn’t try to sway me either way. He was just watching me, and the reason I couldn’t abandon this project before we reached the end became obvious.
Because Wythe deserved to win this. Because he was a good guy. It’s who he was. And he was worth much more than my petty squabbles with my sister.
The mantle. The Christmas card. The photo.
I closed my eyes, and my stomach sank. It wasn’t petty to me. Getting credit for the internship mattered for my job prospects, and it mattered to my family. And I could do it. I was close to that third point. It was a guarantee. Wythe would let me. But then he’d lose the class. He didn’t care about literature. He cared about winning, especially after Vihaan had cheated. And Peppa had cheated. He’d lost his summer and his current job potential to his mom’s choices. His life was so constrained by his family’s choices.
I could rationalize this any way I wanted. I could truly justify going for the intern point. But only one decision would make me able to live with myself. “I choose you.” My voice sounded husky. Because, like always, choices hurt.
But saying the words lifted the weight from me, and my stomach stopped panging. My decision was made, and my insides felt good. Not guilty. Not twisty. Not conflicted. Good. Which was how doing the right thing felt.
Weird because it had been so unclear before. And now…
So clear.
I looked into Wythe’s eyes. “Let’s go to Westminster.”
He blinked, and then he grinned. He moved so he was beside me on the little bench, and I leaned into him. Who knew I’d have one of my favorite moments ever in London rocking along in the back of a subway train with my head on a guy’s shoulder?
***
Marble floor, marble statues. So many royal weddings had taken place here at Westminster Abbey. Weddings. Like the Austen quote had said, “Men in possession of a fortune, needing a wife.” But that was only a small part of what had sent me on the path to the Abbey.
The ultimate answer was the Poet’s Corner. I led Wythe through the abbey to the Poet’s Corner, where British authors were commemorated. “They’re all here. All your authors, buried or memorialized forever. Amazing. Makes you proud, right? Your small island. All these amazing poets, authors, and thinkers.” My voice was enthusiastic and reverent, but it didn’t take much to persuade him.
The way Wythe was grinning at me, I could have said, Take a picture of that black tile and send it in as our ultimate answer, and he would have gone with it. He was pleased with me.
We took a selfie together at Poet’s Corner and sent it in. This was our guess to the ultimate in British literary clues.
“Done.” I was satisfied and content with our answer.
Wythe pulled me around to face him. “That’s it. We’re all in.”
Gazing into his blue eyes, here, the moment felt oddly serious. “We’re right. Whatever the professor says. No matter how many papers we have to write.
I’m confident about what we chose.”
His arms tightened, and he said nothing, but I knew he felt it too. With epic certainty. Like minds. The moment was odd. It bonded us.
He threaded his hand through my hair and absently rubbed a strand between his thumb and index finger.
Our phones beeped, and he held onto me while we checked the incoming messages.
We checked our screens.
All votes are in. The die is cast. Some teams went with volume, some with obscure facts. One team exemplified success. Kira and Wythe. Their “living literature” theme showed me they understood this project in a way no one else did. Their ultimate answer showed us all the ultimate honor our authors can obtain—to be studied, to be relished, to be remembered. While there were an infinite number of ultimate answers, they answered best.
First. My heart stopped as my mind processed the professor’s words, and then the thrill went through my veins.
We’d come in first.
Wythe grabbed me and swung me around. The motion was a rush. His arms were a rush. I laughed, ignoring the tourists and their curious gazes, ignoring anything but him and our win. When we stopped, and the world stopped spinning around me, the history, the literature, all my focus was on him. The past dropped away, and I felt with absolute certainty that I was looking at my future.
He took my hand, and we walked back to Downing Street swinging our clasped hands. Me. Him. Passing red mailboxes, shops, the bustle of people, the iconic sites. Every step in this ancient city was extraordinary.
That we could walk home from a place like that. Amazing.
We arrived back still floating on the high of our win, my heart full, and were hit by the modern and practical: security checks, guards radioing in our arrival, and an escort to the family room.
Peppa was there.
I didn’t care.
The Prime Minister was there, looking like a mom waiting up for a minor. “You escaped your security detail.”
I wasn’t sorry.
Wythe moved away from me and over to his mom. “Really? We’re going to do this here?”
The PM’s face tightened further. “Peppa sorts your schedule for a reason.”
