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My heart tightens into a sickly, lurching rhythm. “Oh?”
She glances approvingly at the pin on my blazer lapel. “You’re quite right, of course, about cowardice and truth-telling. I see you’ve also been keeping abreast of the latest developments. And from what I’ve gathered, King James is understandably looking to divert funding away from anywhere that supported the traitors. So perhaps, as a long-term solution to your educational needs, there may be better alternatives than a university that could potentially go bankrupt within the next year.”
It feels like the floor has opened up in front of me. I stare at her hard enough that my eyes begin to water.
King James.
The thing is, the career adviser looks normal. Sane. A perfectly pleasant woman with curly, shoulder-length hair and a mild sweep of lipstick. Kind, smiling eyes. Not wild-eyed and frothing at the mouth. Not zealous like Benji, nor secretive like his brother. Normal.
A normal woman, reciting the creed.
I’m speechless.
I stand suddenly, aware of the compactness of the room we’re in. All I know is that I need to get away from her. She looks startled, but makes sure to hand me a dozen leaflets to take away.
As soon as I’m at the door, I tell her, “Benjamin Moncrieff is not and never will be my king,” and I slam it behind me on her shocked face, my heart thrumming in exultation.
