London, England
July 2017

People with minds that hate

"Are you trying to kidnap me?" I ask Ken curiously as we step from the side exit of The Bloomsbury Hotel onto a narrow street.

"If I wanted to kidnap you, I could simply lock you in the dungeons," he informs casually. When I look up at him, he grins and squeezes my hand, before giving it a tug and leading me along the street. (I sure hope he doesn't intend to go far. These are really not the right shoes for a lengthy walk!)

"There are no dungeons at KP!" I reply triumphantly.

His grin widens. "What makes you so sure of that? Perhaps I simply had a reason for not showing them to you yet."

Hmm…

I tip my chin in thought. "Now, that's a thought that's going to fester…"

Ken laughs. "No worries," he assures. "For dungeons, we have The Tower."

"Speaking of which, you never did introduce me to the ghost of Anne Boleyn!" I accuse him, pouting.

"I can't deny that, I'm afraid. I promised you… what? Six years ago?" he asks.

"More like seven," I correct. "It was the very first day we met."

"Seven years," Ken repeats pensively. "And yet, no Seven Year Itch."

I give him a pointed look. "I should hope so!"

He smiles and stops to kiss the tip of my nose. "None at all." Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he adds, "Though if you feel so inclined, I could certainly find you a subway grate to stand on…"

"No you couldn't, because you don't have them here. You should have done that while we were still in New York," I counter smugly.

"That would have made things easier," he admits, chuckling. "But there's time yet. I mean, who's to stop us from flying to New York for the weekend?"

"US immigration, for one," I deadpan. "You have your fancy diplomat's pass. I have a file with them."

Ken seems unperturbed. "We'll get you a diplomat's pass yet. But first…"

He puts both hands on my shoulders and turns me around. I follow his directions willingly and find myself confronted with –

An unimpressive, red-painted set of double doors.

"You know, if you're still trying to convince me this isn't some plan to make me disappear suddenly, you're not doing a very good job of it," I inform Ken archly, raising my eyebrows.

"Look at it this way," he replies calmly, "if my plan was to lock you away in a dungeon, would I have really treated you to dinner beforehand?"

Mhh, dinner was nice. The cooks at The Bloomsbury's Dalloway Terrace Restaurant really can cook.

"Maybe it was a sort of last supper thing?" I speculate, still eyeing the set of doors.

Ken laughs. "If anything, it would be a last meal. Last supper was the one with Jesus."

"Details, details," I sing-song, looking at him over my shoulder. He smiles and it lights up his entire face.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spy Hanson stepping up to us. "Sir? Is anything the matter?"

The PPOs formed a loose circle around us while we walked the few metres along the narrow street and they likely didn't hear all of our banter. That we're now standing in front of the red door without entering must look right odd to them.

"All good, Hanson," I assure him quickly. "We were just about to go inside. We wouldn't want to miss, um… the… the undoubtedly exciting thing waiting for us in there." Under my breath, I add, "Which hopefully won't be the final step in my demise."

Ken reaches over me to knock on the red door. As he does, he murmurs in my ear, "You're always safe with me."

"I know," I whisper back, smiling to myself.

He slips an arm around my waist as we wait for the door to open, which it does within mere seconds. It reveals a man in a suit who invites us inside with a motion of his hand. "Your Royal Highness, Miss Blythe, welcome to The Dominion Theatre. My name is Irving Lipton and I'm the manager on duty today."

"Ooh!" I beam first at Mr Lipton (who look a little confused) then up at Ken. "Musical!"

"We're playing An American in Paris, Miss," Mr Lipton explains helpfully. "And we're very honoured you chose our theatre to spend your birthday at."

"Well, I'm a Canadian in London, so…" I shrug. "If the shoe fits, right?"

Mr Lipton blinks, then nods. "Certainly, Miss." A second passes, before he remembers that he meant to invite us inside and he hurriedly steps back. "Please come in."

We do so, followed closely by Hanson, Dawson and Gaffley, the latter of whom joined Ken's security team earlier this year. Mr Lipton leads us through the bowels of the theatre and I look around with interest, taking it all in. (The access to backstage areas is definitely one of the perks of being associated with royalty!) Several of the staff and performers lurk around, undoubtedly to get a glimpse of us, and I smile and nod at them in passing. Normally, Ken would probably greet them and say a few words, but today is my birthday and I know he wants to make a point not to have it overtaken by royal duties.

Thus, we emerge from the backstage area rather quickly into a prettily decorated corridor. Mr Lipton stops in front of a door and opens it to peek inside. Apparently, whatever he sees there pleases him, for he nods and turns back to us.

"Lights are already out and the show will begin in a few moments," he explains. "I hope you enjoy your evening with us and that we can welcome you again in the future."

"I'm certain we will have a lovely time and we'll be glad to be back," Ken assures him.

Another nod from Mr Lipton, this one deep enough to almost qualify as a bow, before he holds open the door and gestures for us to step inside. Ken guides me forward by the arm still settled around my waist and when I step through the door, I find myself in a box to the side of the stage. The lights are already low and the rest of the theatre is shrouded in darkness, except for the spotlights turned on the large curtain still hiding the stage.

I've been here before with Dev and Lucy and even from our cheap seats in the back I could see that all of the boxes stood empty then. I have a sneaking suspicion they don't usually sell them to theatre goers.

"More privacy," Ken mutters, as if having read my thoughts, and points me to one of the cushy red velvet seats.

Well… I guess he makes a good point well. Since we only entered after the lights were turned off, the darkness hides us, too, and provided we slip out before the encore, there's a good chance none of the other theatre-goers will ever know they saw the same musical as royalty – at the very same time.

Ken takes my light jacket and with a grateful smile at him, I sink into the plush chair. He sits down next to me and reaches over to firmly wrap my hand in his. I'm vaguely aware that Hanson and Dawson are in the seats behind us, while poor Gaffley, as the new kid, was likely positioned outside in the corridor to keep watch.

In front of us, the curtain slowly lifts and as it does, Ken leans over to me. "Good birthday?" he asks quietly.

"Great birthday," I reply honestly and smile at him in the dim light.

And it is. It's a great birthday. Perhaps not the absolute best birthday I ever had, but certainly up there. Plus, I mean, it isn't over yet, right? We had dinner and now a musical and maybe afterwards… maybe when we're back home…

Maybe back home there could be a special piece of jewellery waiting to make this birthday the very best birthday after all. It wouldn't be totally unreasonable to think that maybe, today could be the day, right? Right?

(Yes, I know what I talked to about with my sisters. I know I should raise the subject in a calm, grown-up way with Ken. But… it's just not romantic, okay? 'I'd like to be proposed to, please,' is possibly the least romantic thing in the world to say. And yes, I know I brought it upon myself, but… today is my birthday and it's not completely unreasonable to expect that perhaps, Ken got the message and will actually dare to ask now, is it? And if he doesn't, we can always have the sensible talk tomorrow. That was the deal I struck with myself – wait until today and otherwise, find a quiet moment to talk tomorrow.)

Over on the stage, the first actor steps into the spotlight and I resolutely push the nagging thoughts aside. For now, I will focus on the musical and whatever happens when we get home will happen then.

Luckily, the musical is utterly charming, so it's not hard to focus on. The story itself isn't too complicated to follow and wouldn't be too difficult to predict even if I hadn't already seen the movie, but the music is catchy and the acting is good and it all looks very pretty, so I readily lose myself in the fantasy unfolding in front of my eyes.

That is, I do, until I start noticing a certain restlessness behind me.

At first, I'm only vaguely aware of it, too caught up in the happenings on the stage, where Lise just admitted her love for Jerry before fleeing from the garden, but then, slowly, the realisation creeps in that something is happening back there. Both Hanson and Dawson left the box at different points in the last few minutes, with the door opening and closing several times, and when I crane my neck to look at the back, I'm surprised to find only Gaffley standing by the door, looking intently down at the phone in his hand.

Ken, too, is stealing intermittent glances back at his PPOs, though he's doing so in a way that makes me think he doesn't want me to notice, probably so as not to distract or worry me.

"Is something wrong?" I whisper to him.

He shakes his head, but there's a frown between his brows that tells me he doesn't believe his own lie.

I'd press further, but don't get a chance to before the door opens once again. I quickly turn my head to see –

Beckett?

But he wasn't even here with us! Why is he…? And how…?

I open my mouth to ask, but Ken lightly puts a hand on my shoulder and shakes his head, before rising to meet Beckett. If I expected answers from Ken's head of security though, none are forthcoming. Instead, they communicate entirely by looks, with not a single word uttered.

Still sitting in my plush seat, my eyes travel from one to the other as I try to decipher the meaning of this. In the background, the musical continues, but it's a discordant note now, its cheeriness jarring with the suddenly tense atmosphere around me. Because while I might not know what the issue is yet, I know something has happened.

I only hope it isn't –

I swallow and push the thought aside. I will not think of this!

As I look anxiously up at the men standing next to me, Ken suddenly moves his head to nod at me while raising his eyebrows questioningly at Beckett. Immediately, Hanson steps from the shadows and comes to stand next to my seat.

What is happening?

Once again, I want ask for an explanation, but apparently, the men are done. Beckett nods sharply and takes a step back, though without leaving the box. Ken sits back down, but only in the edge of his seat, like he's about to jump back up again any second.

His one hand still on my shoulder, he raises the other one to touch my face. "I'm going to need you to go with Hanson. Don't argue, don't ask question. We'll see each other very soon. I don't know what happened, but I hope I have answers for you when we do. Until then, please just do what Hanson says." There's concern etched in the lines of his face and an urgency to his voice, but his touch his gentle.

Of course, the mere request not to ask questions makes me want to ask dozens of them, but Ken doesn't wait around for them or even for an affirmation. He's already back on his feet, only leaning down briefly to kiss my forehead. Instinctively, I try to reach for him, but he's already gone, moving quickly towards the door where Beckett awaits.

As I stand up as well, I can see the other PPOs behind Beckett. There must be six or seven of them, darkly dressed and with similarly nervous looks on their faces. Some of them, I've never seen on Ken's detail before and yet, the moment he leaves the box, they fall into formation around him, forming a tight circle with Ken in their midst.

They're protecting him, I realise with a sickening jolt.

Only – from what?

Blindly, I reach around for something to hold on to as I feel myself starting to shake – and am met with the warm familiarity of another hand.

"Miss?"

I whip my head around.

Hanson.

"Follow me, please, Miss."

Automatically, I open my mouth, to ask what's the matter or perhaps to say I'm going nowhere before I don't know what happened – but then, I remember Ken's words. 'Don't argue, don't ask questions.' Slowly, I close my mouth again.

Hanson lets go of my hand and motions for me to leave the box. "Please, Miss." He's the picture of politeness and I can see him trying to project calm so as not to upset me, but I've known him long enough to recognise the tightness in his smile and the strain in his voice.

"Right," I whisper tonelessly. "Of course."

Don't argue, don't ask questions.

Absent-mindedly I pick up my handbag and turn for the door through which Ken just vanished. The moment I leave the box, Hanson is there by my side. He puts an arm over my shoulders, applying just enough pressure to make me sink into myself.

"Keep your head low," he tells me quietly. "And don't stop walking, no matter what happens. If I stay behind, keep walking and don't look back. One of the others will take my place. If they fall behind as well, run. There's a car waiting for you by the stage exit. The driver knows where to go."

"But –" I begin, then stop myself.

Don't argue, don't ask questions.

There's so much I want to ask, because this is seriously weird and I'm seriously starting to feel scared, but Ken's voice rings in my head and keeps me quiet. Ken, who I can only just glimpse at the foot of the stairs in front of us, still surrounded in a tight circle by all his PPOs, positioned like that to keep all harm from him, positioned like that to –

To take a bullet for him.

That's what this is about, isn't it?

I feel sick.

"Don't worry. They'll take care of him and we'll take care of you," Hanson promises, having guessed my thoughts. "But to do that, I need you to come with now."

Right.

I swallow down the bile rising in my throat and breathe deeply in and out through my nose until I no longer feel like I have to vomit. Then, obediently ducking my head, I start walking. Ken is gone from my sight and there's nothing to look at anyway, so I keep my eyes fixed on my shoes as I walk quickly, Hanson still close by my side.

(There's a quiet voice whispering in my ear that, seeing as I still don't know what happened, maybe looking at my feet is the safest option anyway. Maybe this way, I can escape seeing things I don't want to see.)

In front of me, hurrying over the carpet, I can just see the back of Beaverstock's shoes (he didn't originally come here with us either, Beaverstock did) and I know there's another man close behind me, who I think I might have seen with Leslie before. Their circle is smaller and not as impenetrable as the one around Ken, but I'm clearly the one in the middle, the one they're meant to protect, the one they're meant to –

No.

This is ridiculous!

No-one could possibly want to –

No!

It is unthinkable!

But of course, it's all I think about anyway as I stumble over the carpet in my impractical heels, Hanson half guiding and half dragging me along. It's not so much myself I think of but Ken, because isn't he the one who matters? Isn't he the one someone would want to – someone would want to – would want to –

The very thought makes my knees buckle, but Hanson is right there to steady me. "Careful," he mutters, without ever breaking stride. Ahead of me, Beaverstock's shoes pause briefly and when I'm level with them, I feel his hand grab hold of my left elbow.

Vaguely, I think I should maybe be braver, that I should keep my head upright and calmly walk with the men around me instead of having them drag and push me like some sort of dead weight, but the truth is, I couldn't if I tried. It takes all I have in me to put one foot in front of the other, to keep down the bile in my throat and to keep moving without my legs collapsing beneath me. Dread coils like a hot and painful thing in my stomach and maybe this is just a reality I have to face. Maybe I'm just not very brave.

Actually, scratch that. I'm not brave at all. I'm scared out of my mind and I don't even know what I'm really afraid of.

Without warning, Beaverstock's hand leaves my elbow and I would have stumbled but for Hanson's arm keeping my upright. When I look up instinctively, I see the red double door in front of me that Beaverstock is just opening, but only after a careful look to check what's on the other side.

It turns out that outside, there's just a car with the engine running and I realise that it's waiting for us. It looks different from the cars we normally use, somehow heavier, but I don't have time to think about it, because Hanson is already steering me in direction of the rear door. He wrenches it open and I climb inside without him having to tell me so. He's right behind me, while Beaverstock runs around the car to get in on the other side and the third PPO, the one I saw with Leslie's detail, gets in on the front next to the driver. The three doors slam shut loudly, making me flinch, and a mere second later, the car is moving, its tires screeching in protest.

Automatically, I reach for the seat belt, but Hanson stops me. "Not tonight."

I look at him, confused at first, but then I realise and my already wildly thumping heart beats a little faster still. Tonight, we don't wear seatbelt so that if there's something forcing us to leave the car quickly, they won't hold us back.

Getting into the car, I felt like we'd reached safety, and the understanding that that might not be the case hits me like a punch to the gut. My breath quickens, matching my heartbeat in speed, and before I know it, I'm hyperventilating, futilely gasping for air and yet feeling like I might suffocate.

"Shh," murmurs Hanson. "It's okay. Put your head between your knees and try to breathe." He puts a hand on the back of my neck and pushes lightly, making me lean forward and rest my forehead on my knees as I try to control my breathing.

"It's better if she keeps her head low anyway until we're away from the zone of incident," chimes in the third man from the front of the car and I'm not quite sure with the blood rushing in my ears, but I think I hear Hanson growl at him to shut up.

Meanwhile, Beaverstock lightly nudges his knee against mine to get my attention. "You want to take deep breaths, Miss, and try to hold them for as long as possible," he tells me a little shyly. "Breathe in… and out… and in… and out… and in… and out…"

Closing my eyes, I concentrate on his voice and try to match my breaths to it. It takes a while, but eventually, I manage to calm my breathing and as I do, I feel my heart beat a little slower, too. At least I know longer feel like I'm chocking on some invisible thing blocking my airways.

Once I think I can safely speak again, I turn my head to the side and peer up at Hanson.

"I left my jacket at the theatre," I inform him and even as I say it, I know it's nonsensical, but somehow, it's the only thing I can think of right now.

I left my jacket at the theatre.

"We will ask the manager to send it to the palace," Hanson assures me calmly and I find myself nodding against my knees. That sounds like a sensible idea indeed.

The driver cuts a corner too quickly and we're all of us jostled around on the backseat. Once again, Hanson steadies me with a hand on my shoulder, before telling me, "I think you can sit back up now if you feel up to it."

Experimentally, I raise my head, and when I find that I don't feel like vomiting or choking or fainting, I sit up properly and lean against the backrest of the seat. I take a few deep breaths, looking from Hanson to Beaverstock and back again. "I'm sorry. I guess I was… pretty useless back there."

"Perfectly understandable, Miss" Beaverstock declares quickly. "It's only normal to react nervously in a situation like that."

"You weren't nervous," I points out after some more calming breaths.

"Because we're trained for it," Hanson answers simply. "You aren't, so of course you reacted differently. Come to think of it, we should maybe get you some training soon, but that's a decision for another day."

Briefly, I wonder what kind of training he means, but then decide that this, too, will be a question for another day.

With a comforting smile, Hanson adds, "It's okay to be scared. There's no shame in it."

I take a deep breath. "What… what happened back there?" I ask, my voice shaking slightly. "I know I'm not supposed to ask –" I break off, the thought of Ken like a tight, hard ball of fear in my stomach.

"Of course you're allowed to ask questions. We just didn't have time to answer them earlier because we were in a bit of a hurry, in case you hadn't noticed." Hanson accompanies his words with a slight smile and I know it's to reassure me but still, the hard ball of fear inside of me remains.

"And what –?" I manage, before my voice breaks again.

In an instant, the smile is gone and Hanson sighs instead. "Someone drove a car into a group of people on Tottenham Court Road, not far from the theatre."

And just like that, the nausea is back full force. "Did someone… did someone…?" I flail my hand helplessly, hoping that Hanson understands.

"We don't know yet," he explains, his voice calm but his expression one of sadness. "We don't even know if it was intentional or if there was any connection to you and His Royal Highness. It could have been an accident, but we decided not to take any risks."

I nod slowly, but of course, that's not all I want to ask. I need to know if… I need to know if… I need to know. Period.

But I can't even formulate the question in my head, much less out loud, so I just look at Hanson pleadingly, hoping that somehow, I can make him understand what I need to ask but can't.

I need to know!

For a moment, Hanson holds my gaze, then he turns his head and leans forward slightly. "Any information on the other cars?" he asks the men in front.

"They made it back to the palace already," the man from Leslie's detail replies matter-of-factly and as he does, I feel the ball of fear inside me uncoil and dissolve.

He's okay.

He's okay, he's okay, he's okay, he's okay, he's okay, he's –

"We're about to arrive as well," adds the driver.

Abruptly, I raise my head and indeed, there's Buckingham Palace looming in front of us, a large, steady, ugly presence that is infinitely reassuring to me right now. I fix my gaze on it, drawing comfort from its familiarity and the fact that even if this car didn't mean safety, surely the palace will. Surely there, nothing can hurt him or me or anyone.

"Reports are just in that the driver likely acted with intent," reports the man from the passenger seat just as our car swings around to drive towards one of the gates.

This time, Hanson telling him to be quiet is unmistakable and I'm glad for it. I will think about this later, about what it means for the people who were hurt and for those who love them and for everyone else, I will think about it and I will think about what I can do about it, too, but for now, I'm just so relieved to have reached this place where there's safety and where there's Ken that I think I might cry.

I don't cry, at least not right away. I don't cry when Hanson ushers me from the car and through the palace, up stairs and along corridors. I don't cry when I enter one of the drawing rooms where the entire family is assembled. I don't cry when I see Leslie's bloodless face and Owen's stricken one. I don't cry when I see Teddy with an arm around a sobbing Amy or Persis with her nails digging so deep into the skin of her arms as to draw blood. I don't even cry when my eyes fall on Ken, standing by the window and looking like he might cry any moment, too.

Instead, I rush towards him, with nary a look for anyone else in the room, and fall into his opened arms. Immediately, he draws me close, close, close, as close as humanely possible, and I hold on just as tight. I burrow my face against his shoulder, surrounding myself with the scent of him, and feel his uneven breath wash over me as he rests his cheek on the top of my head.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, so quiet I can barely hear him. "I'm so, so sorry. I promised you'd be safe with me and –" He breaks off and I can feel a shudder run through his body.

"I'm safe," I promise faintly, my face still hidden against his shoulder. "I'm safe and you're safe. We're both safe. We're safe."

It's only then that I dissolve into sobs.

The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Revolution' (written by John Lennon, released by The Beatles in 1968).

To DogMonday:
Don't feel like crying, please. I've considered the subject of what women can and can't do and I think I found have a rather satisfying solution for it. Just give me a little more time =).
I think the sisterly Skype calls happened in the background this entire time, if probably not as frequently as they did when they were younger and had less obligations. It's been a while since we got a look into one of the calls, but they've taken place and it was fun to write one of them again. Bringing in the sisters is, of course, also helpful to me as a writer when I want Rilla to face potentially uncomfortable news, because they have a way of not letting her slip past the difficult subjects. There's nothing to keep you honest like siblings and in this set of siblings, that's especially true for Di. Here, of course, Joy plays the even bigger role though, realising what happened before anyone else and carefully guiding Rilla to the same revelation. Rilla needs a nudge sometimes and Joy, like Anne, is good at providing it.
Lottie is there as part of her training. So far, she's mainly spent time around him, Rilla and some friends and staff, but hasn't yet had to get used to larger groups of people. For her to feel comfortable in her life and not get stressed every time she meets groups of strangers (which will inevitably happen), she needs to get used to this. Ken didn't take her because the humans wanted to meet her or because he was thoughtless, he simply considered it the next logical step of her training to become a calm, confident dog in all kinds of settings.
Hanson has a knack for dealing with Rilla and she genuinely respects him, which means he can be honest with her in a way that not many PPOs would allow themselves with the principals they're protecting. They've definitely built a sibling-like relationship over the years (with the necessary professional aspects to it) and I think it shows in this chapter, too. Rilla can have a mulish streak and with another PPOs, she might not have follow along so readily. She trusts Hanson though and knows he cares for her, so she surrendered the lead to him in what was a confusing and scary situation, while also allowing him to reassure her when it's over. He's definitely the best choice when it comes to protecting her!
Why would I discourage wedding dress talk? I think we all know where this story is going at this point ;). Short of killing Ken or Rilla off, I don't think there's a way for them not to end up in front of the altar, and while I've occasionally been known to be less than benevolent to my characters, even I'm not so cruel as to kill off a main character 600.000 words into the story. I'm simply not that brave ;).

To Rach H:
Clearly, this wasn't the hoped for chapter bringing us Rilla taking matters into her own hands and proposing. Sorry for that! I promise I'm going somewhere with this though and I also promise it isn't a long story arc we're looking at. However, it's something I wanted to explore, especially in relation to the additional capacity for growth it brings or might bring. It's a difficult subject, but I hope I'll be able to do it justice. You be the judge!
That said, I entirely agree that Ken did most of the heavy lifting relationship-wise recently and while Rilla did more work in the past, it's certainly time for her to step up and step in again. I also have a lot of sympathy for women taking charge and taking matters into their own hands, because we live in a modern world and we're not bound by traditional roles anymore (or shouldn't be, anyway). For now, let's leave it at that ;).
Hanson was offered to head Amy's security, because he did a good job protecting Ken and was also due a promotion (and also, I think, because someone noticed how well he connected with Rilla and thought that would spell good things for him building a trusting professional relationship with Amy). I dare say he was pleased, but he definitely weighed his options and decided that he'd rather wait a little longer and take over Rilla's security team. It's not a done deal, but Hanson obviously thinks the chances are pretty good.
Real life in the royal world is certainly in turmoil right now, isn't it? I'm looking at it with a sort of 'professional' interest that comes from writing this story, but ultimately, I mostly just think it's sad that so many people were/are hurt and that so many relationships were broken. We can't know what happened behind the scenes, but these are all humans as well as royals and I hope for them they can reconcile and/or find peace, happiness and an the ability to move on.