“It’s not a big deal, Philip.” I take a seat across the table.

“Yes, it is. Jace Dawson is bad news.”

“I’m not allowed to have a college fling?” I ask petulantly.

Philip looks even angrier. “Not with Dawson. You know the level of scrutiny around him. If someone starts looking into you because you’re associating with him, your cover could be blown. Is this fling worth all the blowback that would create?”

“It’s none of your business,” I retort, standing. I’m abruptly furious, partly because I’m annoyed by Philip’s interference, but mostly because I’m worried he might be right. “And I suggest you remember what your place is in all this, Agent Matthews.” I emphasize Philip’s formal title. “You work for the Crown, not the other way around. Don’t forget that.”

“I’m trying to protect the Crown,” Philip hisses. “And you.”

“Your job is to look after my physical safety, not to cast judgements about my personal life.”

“I’m trying to keep you from getting hurt. You must have heard the rumors about him. You’re just another conquest. Imagine what it’ll be like if he finds out who you really are and leaks it to the press. He’ll be considered a legend, while you’ll be labeled a slut.”

I flinch at his harsh words. “You don’t know anything about Jace, or our relationship.”

“I know it won’t end any other way besides badly.”

“I’m done having this conversation. Don’t mention anything about this to me again, or you’ll be gone.” I storm out of the library, leaving a fuming Philip in my wake.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The remainder of the week passes quickly. I only see brief glimpses of Jace, since he travels with the team to Boston on Wednesday to make up their game that was meant to be Thanksgiving.

He texts me on Friday morning as I’m leaving my English class, letting me know he won’t be back on campus by noon, as originally planned, since their flight has been delayed. I’m typing a response when my phone lights up with an incoming call.

I answer.

“Vivienne? Are you there?” my mother’s voice comes through the line.

“Yes, I’m here, Mother,” I reply.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. My calls home have become less frequent and more stilted as the months in Michigan have passed. As Marcedenia has begun to feel further and further away.

“How’s Papa?” I finally ask.

“He’s still at the cottage,” my mother replies. “He says he thinks better out there. I speak to his nurse every day, and he’s doing fine. No changes.”

“His nurse?” I question, my voice rising in alarm.

“She’s more of a secretary at the moment,” my mother assures me. “The doctors suggested it would be best to already have someone familiar in place whenever things do start to progress.”

“That makes sense, I guess,” I respond. I spot an open bench along the side of the path and take a seat so I can set down my heavy backpack.