ARTHUR

I can't believe I'm doing this.

I've never considered myself an overly anxious person, but I think I may just have a full-blown anxiety attack if my heart doesn't stop pounding soon.

"Shh, sweetheart," Gilbert whispers. We're in the back of Berwald Oxenstierna's car. This, apparently, means we would normally be at risk of horrible death, but now that Gilbert and Berwald have tenuously agreed to be allies, we're safe. For the moment. I think.

Oh, god. My heart races like a rabbit's. I almost feel lightheaded. Am I going to pass out now?

Gilbert holds my hand, squeezes my fingers with his gloved ones. His other hand is pressed to his side, where—beneath his shirt—he has bandages wound tight round his ribcage. He's paler than he normally is, but he claims that Berwald's knife only "poked" the upper part of his stomach, whatever the bloody hell that means. I saw the blood when he took the knife out, and it looked like more than a "poke" to me. But Gilbert says he's fine.

"What if something bad happens?" I whisper to Gilbert, failing to hide the fear in my voice.

"You do not need to whisper," Berwald says from the driver's seat. I've never heard a more emotionless voice than his, but it's not flat in a depressed way. It's strong. It reminds me of rock, of steel. Unforgiving. I'm filled again and again with a shock that he's in here with us, followed by relief that he's on our side.

Gilbert looks at me over his sunglasses. He isn't wearing his cowboy hat, so instead of looking silly, he looks . . . well, the best way to describe him is badass. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to you, Arthur. Alright?" His tone is so serious, so different from the brash and sarcastic stuff he normally says. That only makes me more afraid. Gilbert isn't being funny anymore. This isn't a joke. All three of us could be dead in the next twenty minutes.

Oh god.

"But something could happen," I say, because if I keep it inside I'll have a mental breakdown. "Something could happen, and you and Berwald could die, and I would be left, and I would have to go home with Alfred, and . . ."

I trail off, expecting Gilbert to hush me, to stop thinking about worse case scenarios like Alfred always used to. The golden boy, the optimist. Turn that frown upside-down, Artie! If you think positive, everything will turn out just fine. Relax! No worries, be happy. But Gilbert isn't like that. He holds my hand, looks at me, and says, "And what? What'll happen if you're with Alfred?"

It's not taunting, how he says it. He's encouraging me to go on. Why does he want to hear this? Then I realize, he wants me to let it out, vent my anxieties. So I do. "If I go back to Alfred, he'll be angry at me for leaving. He'll think I'm crazy and perverted, and he'll put me into therapy. I'll have to go to sessions with some transphobic therapist person, and they'll tell me I shouldn't accept who I am. He'll tell me wanting to be a lady is bad. And he'll blame it all on what my father did to me. But it wasn't that. It's who I am. It's who I am."

Gilbert smiles faintly with his pale lips, his dark red gaze full of love. That's what it is in there, I know it. Friendship and acceptance and fondness and love. Romantic love, too? The thought should terrify me, but there are much scarier things happening right now; the thought of being in a relationship with Gilbert seems like a walk in the park. And maybe it would be nice. It's nice being his friend, and . . . when he was stabbed, I felt such a fear for him, fear that I would have to live without him . . . do I love Gilbert?

I push out the rest of my nervousness. "Or I could leave Alfred, and get a divorce. And he might try to hurt me. But he might also leave me alone. And then . . . if he did that, I would be able to transition. But I would be alone." I raise my gaze to meet Gilbert's, my voice lowering to a whisper again. "I wouldn't want that. I would . . . I would want to be with you."

Gilbert's eyes widen a little, but he doesn't look too shocked, and—thank god—he doesn't look disgusted, like he wants to reject me. I'd never even realized that he might not want me, because I have a male body, but if we get through this, Dr. Héderváry will give me surgery, and I won't be a man anymore. I'll be a woman. A lady. Finally, something beautiful.

Gilbert leans closer to me and his breath tickles my ear as he whispers, "I would want to be with you, too. If everything goes according to plan, I want us to have a happy ending. My happily ever after is you living with me. Being with me. I want to be able to tell you that I love you." He pauses a bit awkwardly, as if he hadn't meant to say that last part, and leans back a little, smiling self-deprecatingly. "Would you mind that, if I maybe mentioned that I love you, Arthur?"

My heart shudders in my chest, but not from fear. Everything in me feels shaky and warm, ecstatic. I want to wriggle and jump with glee, like a child given an ice cream cone during a trip to the zoo. This isn't a miracle like Alfred was, this is a dream come true. And now we're headed into a nightmare. But I hope, and I pray, that we will make it through, and wake up on the other side.

I lean my head against Gilbert's shoulder, twining my fingers with his clunky gloved ones. "No," I say quietly. "You can tell me you love me all you want, as long as I can say that I love you back."

Gilbert presses a soft kiss to my forehead and rests his cheek against my hair. "It's a deal, liebling."

Before I can enjoy how safe it feels to cuddle with him like this, or thank him for everything he's done for me, or ask him what liebling means, Berwald is slowing the car to a stop and rolling down his window. I feel all of Gilbert's muscles tense; it feels like I'm curled beside a guard dog, about to growl at the threat before us. My guardian angel.

We're parked in front of a big gate. A big man comes toward the car, leans down to look at Berwald. His accent is Russian, just like the bad guys in the action movies Alfred watches. "You have brought the packages?"

Berwald nods. "They have come willingly."

The guard's brow furrows in suspicion, and he glances into the back of the car, where Gilbert and I sit. Gilbert has sat up straight, but I stay cowered against his side, looking meek like I'm supposed to. This is essentially my only role to play in Gilbert's plan, which is good, because looking into the beady eyes of this Russian guard, everything Gilbert and Berwald agreed on has fled my mind. I almost feel like I'm back in school, where I would study as much as my brothers but always get the worst grades because as soon as that test was set down before me, I forgot everything I'd learned and could only see the blank white of panic. Oh, school days, so blissfully predictable. I could weep for that stability now.

Gilbert's lip curls, less a smile and more a baring of his teeth. "You wanna stare at us all day, or let us in to talk to Big Daddy? You don't wanna leave him waiting. If he runs out of kids to rape, he'll be upset."

The guard sneers in disgust—though if it's for Gilbert or for his boss, I can't tell—and steps away to open the gate for us. Berwald drives us down the long driveway, up to a house far grander and way more imposing than any of the rich American houses Alfred has shown me over the years. I expected to see big black and brown dogs with frothing mouths and spiked collars stalking the grounds, but instead the lawn is cheerfully green and well-trimmed, with some fountains here and there. Waiting for us at the front door, however, are two more huge guards.

Gilbert opens the car door for me, and my legs tremble as I stand. "Oh, Gilbert." I say it through my teeth, not wanting them to read my lips. "I don't want to die."

Gilbert shakes his head, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. "I don't want to, either."

Berwald looks at the Russian mansion, eyes like ice. "I do not want to die on American soil. I would like to die on snow in Sweden."

Half of Gilbert's mouth smiles at that. "Ja? I'd wanna die someplace dark. Shady, at least. Goddamn sun. I'd wanna die at night. Someplace I can see the stars."

They both look at me expectantly, inquiringly. Where would I like to die, if I had to? What do I want my final moment to be?

"I'm sorry," I say, blushing a little. "I don't really know. Um . . . a nice place. A safe place. With Gilbert beside me, and maybe a cup of tea."

They both nod thoughtfully, Gilbert's smile widening a bit at the mention of his name. "Well," he says, "now that we've let fate hear how we'd prefer to die, let's get going before Murphy's Law kicks in. I wanna get my stomach stitched and be home in time to watch Wheel of Fortune."

And with that, we walk up the steps, past the guards, and into Ivan Braginski's lair.