I yawn. No matter what I tried last night, I couldn’t sleep. In the end I gave up trying and got up, and after praying and reading the Qur’an, I went over the rules. The same thought played on a loop throughout the night: I have to win, I have to win, I have to win. I’m this close to helping Papa. Finally within reach of seeing him again.
Camilla Maxwell, sitting beside me, offers me a weak smile that looks more like a grimace. As Tabs predicted, Camilla’s entry into the race has added glamour to the event. The morning news was full with debate over what the chief historian’s only child, his “pampered princess,” might wear and how she’ll cope. I follow her gaze to her father, Lord Maxwell.
Dressed impeccably as always, the chief historian’s dark coat is decorated with a timepiece on the breast pocket. A bow tie hugs his long neck and a top hat adorns his head. His brow creases as his gaze moves from Camilla to me.
Camilla used to regularly hang out with the twins and me. Before Theo and Tabby had their own Holozone installed, we’d visit Clio House, the massive historical-reenactment hall. Camilla’s dad’s a patron there, and she was nearly always around, eager to discuss the scripting with anyone who shared her passion for writing. Since Papa’s arrest, it’s clear her dad doesn’t want her to have anything to do with me. He narrows his eyes as he watches us now. Stuff him.
Camilla looks pale. I lean over and squeeze her arm. “Written anything lately?” I whisper.
“A short story about a little girl whose submersible malfunctions and falls down a deep trench; she soon realizes the ‘trench’ is actually the mouth of a monster.” Her shoulders droop. “But it was declined. They’re dead serious about the ‘retellings only’ bit.”
“Ooh, monsters. Wait, you submitted an original . . . ?”
She nods slowly, chewing on her lip.
Warmth spreads in my chest. I’ve no idea why. I mean, it’s sad news—her manuscript was rejected. But she wants to tell her own unique story. And now I love her. And pity her a little, because this means at some point she’ll be receiving an origami gift from me.
I lean over again. “Queen.”
A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.
Finlay Scott, the last London Marathon champion, makes his way to the podium. Amid loud cheering and admiring glances from the contestants, he elaborates on how his life changed exponentially when he won the marathon last year. He pats his golden quiff—combed to perfection—and pauses for reaction. Cameras and microphones hover in the space around him. Tabs practically worships him and has a poster of him beside her bed, winking away and stroking his hair as he looks down at her. Ugh.
I stare at him now. The plonker could have asked for anything.
Keys to the nation with the freedom to travel anywhere in Great Britain and special access to the forbidden Old World heritage sights are just some of the things past champions have requested. But Finlay Scott declined a spacious and incredibly sturdy home to request superior citizen status as his Ultimate Prize. He’s now treated as a VIP at all times, sitting among the dignitaries at every national event.
Up next is Prime Minister Gladstone. His gentle face brightens now, his green eyes shining as he mentions a special announcement.
“My fellow Britons, it brings me great pleasure in announcing there will be a referendum on the renaming of the country and capital city,” he declares. “Returning to the rightful former titles of Britannia and Londinium will open up a direct verbal link to the past. It will remind us all of our heritage, and fortify a sense of never giving up on who we once were.”
The room breaks out into cheers and enthusiastic clapping.
I shift around in my seat. Will renaming cities and countries reduce the seasickness numbers? Will it help us against the Anthropoids? The referendum doesn’t make any sense at all. Another one of the chief historian’s odd ideas, no doubt. As if on cue, Lord Maxwell dabs his eyes, nodding energetically.
All too soon, the PM instructs the contestants to say their goodbyes to the family and friends in the drawing room adjacent to the hall. “No past, no future,” says Prime Minister Gladstone, and everyone echoes his personal motto.
I make my way across the room, playing with Mama’s antique kara wrapped around my arm. The silver cuff had been one of her favorite pieces of jewelry. Today feels like the right day to wear it. I take a deep breath as all competing contestants enter the drawing room.
A sea of faces and infinite voices meet us. Family, friends, trainers, sponsors—everybody cheers, claps, and rushes to greet us, all speaking at once. Cameras and Bracelets capture the moment, and everywhere you turn last-minute advice is being doled out.
Jojo jumps out of Tabby’s arms and darts into mine soon as she spots me. Tabs points a red nail at me, listing off everything I must and mustn’t do. Theo winks surreptitiously.
I grin. “I’ve no idea what I’d do without you two. I’m so lucky to have you, and I love you both tons!”
Tabby hugs me before she’s distracted elsewhere. I place the paper model I was making into Theo’s palm.
His eyes widen as he stares at the Jedi. “Bloody brilliant. Ei-Shin Kenobi?”
“Yes. Theo, thank you for everything, especially since Papa’s arrest. Honestly.”
His eyes light up and he wraps me in a comforting embrace. “Your papa will be home one day; I can feel it. It’s not the end if you don’t win today, okay? We’ll think of something else, another way to help him, promise. Remember, this isn’t a sprint. Watch your back out there, Leyla.” He turns his head and groans. “Neptune help us, look who’s walked in.”
Finlay Scott has graced the drawing room with an appearance, taking pictures with the contestants and their families. Tabs hurries over to us, her eyes sparkling and narrowed in contemplation. “He’s even more lush in person. Oh how I want to play with him.” She moves toward him.
Theo turns to me, his voice low. “I swear this isn’t envy talking, but he’s such a tosser. I don’t get how everyone worships him. Have they gone bonkers? Who wears a fake military uniform covered in medals and a cape?”
“I think he’s a bit of a dick, really.” I grimace. “I heard he charges fans to stroke his quiff, but if he thinks you’re ‘hot enough,’ he lets you do it for free. It’s awful, I know, but whenever I see him I really want to hurt him a little bit. There’s just something about him, you know?”
“I think that’s what he brings out in Tabs as well,” he whispers. “Only she has very specific punishments in mind—and they always include a dungeon. Like, what the hell.” Color floods his face, and he shakes his head. We both grin, and I move on around the room.
A tall, willowy girl bursts into tears in her parents’ arms, the nerves proving too much.
Newsbots hover around a woman in a silver jumpsuit as her fitness team stands by, checking her vitals. She jogs on the spot at an alarming speed before offering the cameras a dazzling smile and wink, and pointing at her nametag: Sal. I gulp; hopefully her reflexes are a lot slower when she’s driving, or I’ll have my work cut out. She catches me watching and wrinkles her nose, whispering something to her team. They all stare at me, shaking their heads and muttering. I hear Papa’s name and “seasickness.”