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Bonito hit the ground hard.

Short spiky grass scratched the back of her neck. The normal moon was a white shred at the top of the open noon sky. The other one swam under it, bluish, like a shadow.

For the first time in three years, she closed her eyes.

Croley and Xander leaned over the railing of London Bridge. 

Light danced on the water like a disco ball. A blindingly white sailboat glided into a dock. Birds circled on the updrafts, spinning specks in the pulsing, robin’s-egg-blue sky. Their calls filtered through the closely-woven veil of engines and voices that covered the street.

Croley wore the same black suit as yesterday. He squinted at the water through dark, heavy sunglasses. Xander wore a crisp white graphic t-shirt under a brown leather jacket, and he looked like he would have been wearing his sunglasses even if he wasn’t hungover. He passed a mostly-empty bottle of Canadian whiskey back to Croley.

Croley stared at the label, then drank. “Fucking morning news.”

“Fucking morning news,” Xander agreed.

“Why—” Croley coughed. “Jesus. Where did you buy this.”

“Siward’s.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Xander held out a hand. Croley gave the bottle back.

“What I was going to say is,” he said, “Why is it on in fucking…” 

Croley searched for the name. He looked at Xander for help, but Xander was looking out over the river, meditative.

“Breakfast,” Croley finally decided. “Why is it on in the breakfast restaurant.”

Xander shrugged pensively.

“They sell tabloids,” Coley said.

“I saw that.”

“Right by the fucking door.”

“Mm-hm.”

“So why—if I wanted to know the news. For some goddamn reason. Then I’d buy one of those.”

“Yeah.”

“They’d even make some money.”

“Mm.”

“Are you listening?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“No worries.”

Croley flopped forward over the railing and let his hands dangle over the edge. “I mean,” he said. “Who the fuck wants to see that shit. Especially at eight in the fucking morning.”

“I don’t know.”

“I just wanted some fucking French toast.”

Xander watched a white bird tuck itself into a spinning dive, then pull up and skate along the surface of the water. “The French toast was really good,” he said.

“Get your own next time.”

“Sorry.”

Croley sighed. “It was really good.”

“I know.”

“And why the fuck do I need to—if I want to drink at breakfast, why does it have to be a fucking mimosa? I fucking hate mimosas.”

Xander passed the bottle back to him.

“Thank you, Xander.”

“You’re welcome.”

“What time is it?”

“Nine-fifteen.”

Croley groaned and tipped his head into the railing.  “Why the fuck did he do that,” he muttered into the chipped paint.

“Are you okay?” someone asked behind them.

A pedestrian had stopped. Her lipstick was bright red. She hooked one thumb through her purse strap and frowned at Croley.

“Yes,” Xander said.

“I meant him,” she said.

“He’s fine,” Xander said.

Croley sobbed into the wall. Xander put his arm around him.

“Why is he crying?”

“I’m not fucking crying,” Croley said.

“Okay,” Xander said. “You’re not fucking crying.”

“Try to sound like you believe me.”

“I believe you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“Bastard.”

“Hey,” the pedestrian said. “What’s—”

“Fuck off,” Xander said.

The pedestrian left.

“Who does that,” Croley said.

He was talking about Fife again. “Mr. Worldwide,” Xander said.

“I fucking know.” Croley leaned into the railing. “She didn’t do anything. She was just married to him. She hadn’t even seen him in a year, and he still—” 

Xander hugged him. Croley closed his eyes and let himself collapse into Xander’s chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“No worries.”

Croley stepped back. He rubbed his eyes.

“Fuck!”

“I said I was sorry,” Croley said.

“Not you.” Xander held up the bottle. “It’s empty.”

“Are you sure?”

Xander handed it to him. He checked.

“Fuck.”

Xander nodded.

Croley held the bottle over the side of the bridge. He almost dropped it. Then he stuffed it resentfully into his bag.

“What do you want to do?” Xander asked.

“What do you want to do?”

Xander thought.

“What the fuck are we going to do?” Croley asked the heavens.

“Today, or—”

“Today.”

“Hm.”

“Because I don’t fucking know about anything else.”

Xander nodded. “I don’t fucking know, either.”

“Shit.”

“Shit.”

“What time is it?”

“Nine-eighteen.”

“Shit.”

“Nine-nineteen, now,” Xander corrected himself.

“I wanna go home,” Croley almost shouted.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, Xander.”

“No worries.”

Croley half-laughed, half-sobbed.

Something hard dug into Bonito’s shoulder. 

She blinked. The sky was mottled gray. A whitened sun flashed through her eyelashes, fading in and out of charcoal shadow. The light had a late-fall cast.

Bonito felt around her neck. The chain was still there.

She sat up. She’d landed half-on, half-off a parking block. The broken asphalt around it floated in uneven icebergs on waves of grass and weeds. A string of power poles, lined with dark pine trees, marched away into a tall, straggling forest. The building behind her was a beige cinderblock cliff. Maple saplings hung over the edge of the roof, swaying in the wind. The only sounds were branches scraping against the wall and her own breathing.

Bonito made sure her collar covered the chain one more time, then pulled her legs under herself and unfolded upwards. She stumbled as soon as she was on her feet, but without pausing she braced herself on the wall and followed it like a kid at a roller rink. At the front corner of the building, she stopped, resting one hand on the wall. 

She looked fifteen. Her powder blue and white striped polo shirt was three sizes too big, and her eyes were huge, black, and mostly covered by a mat of bangs. She squinted into the midday sunlight.

She was at the edge of an oceanic parking lot. There were no cars. Jackhammer marks scarred the last contiguous pieces of concrete. The angular brown and gray hulks of abandoned stores sharpened the horizon on every side. A flock of seagulls blanketed the ground in the loading dock to her left.

The only color was a blue tent, tied to a ring of cement buckets in the center of the lot. It covered a vinyl table that had been white a long time ago. “EXECUTOR” was written across the front in red Sharpie.

A man in a brown suit sat behind it. He gestured to the empty folding chair across from him.

Bonito tested her weight on each of her legs and pushed off the wall. A piece of beige paint chipped off where her hand had been. She didn’t seem to notice. She crossed the lot, moving slowly over the broken concrete but never losing speed.

Up close, the man’s suit was brand new and sharply creased. One lapel flapped in the wind. In one corner of his table, a desk lamp lit a plain tear-off calendar and a stack of paper that seemed like it was only there for show. A Magic 8 Ball paperweight was balanced on top. A single, slim white plastic folder lay in front of him.

“Please, sit down.”

The folding chair’s legs skipped over the cracks in the asphalt. Rattling echoed across the parking lot. Carefully, Bonito fit herself into the seat.

“Who—” Bonito’s voice caught. She hadn’t spoken in years. She coughed. “Who are you?”

“I’m the executor of your father’s estate.”

“Oh. Does that mean…”

“He died last year.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

After a long pause, the Executor reached across the desk to adjust the Magic 8 Ball. “We’ve met, although you don’t remember.”

“Sorry.”

“No hard feelings. You were really young.”

Bonito watched him in silence, motionless except for her bangs flapping in the wind.

“Do you remember meeting him?” the Executor asked.

“No.”

“Yeah, I thought so.” The Executor slid the white folder across the desk. “Anyway, this is the will.”

Text blockaded the pages. Roman numerals, numbers, and letters spiraled in on themselves, marching across the paper to pin slivers of text against the far right margin. A blizzard of notes drifted up behind them, splattered with four colors of highlighter.

“That’s the long version,” the Executor said. “The details are there, if you want them. The short version is, there’s only one thing you need to do.”

“To do what?”

“To collect your inheritance.”

“I inherited something?”

“Yes. One-quarter of the estate.”

The Executor looked for some sign that she understood, but her expression didn’t change. 

He decided she looked attentive enough. “All you have to do is go to the Realtor and show her that folder, and it’ll be yours. Her office is marked on the map in the back pocket.”

Bonito watched him with a polite, deeply interested smile. The Executor couldn’t remember if she’d blinked since she’d sat down.

“Well.” He slid his paperweight to a different corner of his stack. The page on top was a glasses prescription. “It’s slightly more complicated.” This time, he didn’t wait for her to respond. “Section four says that all his heirs will need to be there for the will to be read. So you’ll need to bring your siblings.”

“What?”

“You’re the only ones mentioned in the will, so that’ll be all.”

“How many are there?”

“What?”

“How many siblings do I have?”

 “Three.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh.”

Tent canvas snapped over Bonito’s head.

“I found you because I heard about your accident,” the Executor said. “I’m sorry about that, by the way.”

“Thanks. It wasn’t that bad.”

“If you’ll flip to the back, you’ll find everything we know about them. Do you have any questions?”

“How will I find them?”

The Executor handed her the Magic 8 Ball.

“Thanks.” She flipped it over, shook it, and held it up to the desk lamp.

It is decidedly so.

She nodded quickly and shook it again.

Signs point to yes.

She paused, frowned.

Outlook not so good.

Her eyes widened slightly.

Better not tell you now.

Bonito kicked the leg of her chair, frowning at the air. The Executor shifted in his seat. Finally, she handed the paperweight back to him. He replaced it on the stack.

“Anything else?”

She thought. “Can you take a message to my mom?”

The Executor turned his calendar towards him and shrugged. “Sure. I got time.”

“Can I have a pen and paper, please?”

He unclipped his pen from his pocket protector and pushed it across the table, then pulled the glasses prescription off the top of the stack, scanned it, shrugged, and flipped it over. Bonito wrote briefly and carefully, then handed the paper back to him. 

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Bonito folded up her chair with a look of intense concentration, like she was following written instructions, and leaned it against the desk. She turned and walked away across the parking lot with the same steady, ceaseless motion she’d had the first time, but her balance was back now, and she skimmed across the uneven surface like a water bird coming in for a landing.

The Executor tore yesterday’s page off his calendar.

Benezet had reserved the bistrot’s back corner booth. From here, she could see the entire room. The exterior walls were elaborate, stamped cast iron, and the windows had heavy, dark wood frames, accented with gold. The other patrons were dressed immaculately for a business-casual weekend. They talked quietly. Forks clinked.

Benezet lined up the corners of a thin white folder with the silver and black tiles on the table. She still sat the way they’d learned to when they were kids, motionless, meticulously straightened and balanced until she looked perfectly at ease. She wore sunglasses, even indoors. Her suit, nails, lipstick, and shoes were all subtly coordinated shades of dark green. Her black hair was cut and polished into a gleaming, razor-sharp bob. She rested her jaw on one fist and kept her eyes on the door.

“Hey! What can I get started for you?”

The waitress was a high schooler. Brown hair leaked out of her braid and stuck to her apron strap.

“Three waters,” Benezet said.

“Sure. Are you waiting for —”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” She managed to smile. “I’ll be right back.”

The door opened.

For a second, haloed by the daylight, Croley looked like he hadn’t changed in the last seven years. He wore a pure black suit and tie with a snow white shirt. A small gold watch gleamed on his wrist and a diamond sparkled in one ear.

Then he stepped inside, and the image evaporated. His suit hung off him in folds. He hadn’t cut his hair in months. He looked sick. 

Benezet flipped down her sunglasses and raised her eyebrows. 

Croley saw her. A firework look flashed over his face, barely taking shape before it faded and fell. It left a cloudy, indistinct shadow behind it.

Another guy followed him over to her booth, slung his backpack down on the bench, and pushed it over to the wall. His hair was short, and he wore a vintage brown leather jacket over a t-shirt that still smelled like the dryer. He nodded to Benezet and leaned back, bouncing one leg.

Croley slid into the booth and slumped over the menu. Heavy dark circles lined his eyes. The knot in his tie was falling out. His watch was new — it was square and it looked like he’d dug it out of a mall bargain bin. Up close, Benezet couldn’t convince herself that his suit wasn’t the same one he’d worn the day of the coup.

“I’m glad you came, Croley,” she said in Nots Gaelic.

“Yeah.” Croley looked like he was going to say something else, but he didn’t.

“Good to see you, Ben,” Xander said.

Benezet finally recognized him. “You too.” She looked at Croley. “I wanted to talk to you.”

He nodded. She waited.

“Go ahead,” Croley said.

“It’s about our family.”

“Uh-huh.”

Benezet sighed. “Why is Xander here?”

“Oh. I invited him.”

Benezet steepled her fingers, patient. “I understand. Of course we’re doing this for him, too.”

Croley squinted. “What are we doing?”

“We’re going back to reclaim the throne.”

His face went blank. “What?”

She ignored him. “We’ll get Stonorov and Pei, go back to Notland, and kill Mr. Worldwide.”

“Oh,” Croley said, after a second.

“We can make a more detailed plan for the accession after he’s dead. We’ve been gone too long to do it now.”

Croley methodically settled himself in the back corner of the booth. He swirled his water glass, watching ice cubes knock against the sides like he was examining the legs of a fine wine.

“Do it yourself.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“We have to do it together.”

“Why?”

“The prophecy.”

“So?”

“But —”

“Fuck off,” Croley said, in English.

The waitress stepped back.

Croley twisted around. “When the fuck did you get here?” he asked, baffled.

“I’m sorry. I can come back —”

“We’ll have three coffees,” Benezet said.

“Just one.” Croley jerked his head at Xander. “He and I are leaving.”

“Sure.” 

The waitress was gone before Benezet could stop her. 

She turned to Croley. “We can’t let him do that to our country.”

“ ‘Let’?”

“As long as we—”

“You think this shit is my fault?”

“You are the Crown Prince.”

“Not any-fucking-more!”

The girl in the booth behind them flinched. 

Xander looked over his shoulder. “Sorry.”

Croley pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Mr. Worldwide is a usurper,” Benezet said. “We have a duty to take back the throne.”

“Look. Bennie. We don’t — we’re not the royal family anymore. We’re a hit list.”

“As long as we’re alive, he can still be defeated.”

“Okay. I have an idea.” Croley braced his elbows on the table and turned on his old state-visit smile. “The Norns told him he’d rule for fifty years if he kills the four of us in birth order.”

“I know. What’s your point?”

“If you really want to take him out, kill yourself.” Croley shot a pair of finger guns at the ceiling. “Bada-bing, bada-boom,” he added in English.

“Could you take this seriously?”

“You think I don’t take this seriously?”

“You don’t act like it.”

“He killed Fife.”

“What?”

Croley looked like a bird that had flown into a window. “Did you not know?”

“I — no. I hadn’t heard.”

“It was on the news this morning.”

“I haven’t checked yet.”

“ ‘Doing this for all of us,’ huh?”

“It’s been — how long have you known? Two hours?”

“He killed her kids, too.”

Benezet froze. 

Croley saw her eyes widen through her sunglasses and smiled grimly. “Yeah.”

She shrugged jerkily. 

Croley leaned forward. “My memory’s hazy, but I remember her oldest. Pretty sure she brought him to the last palace Christmas party before the coup. He was two, maybe three years old? Blond kid? Looked a lot like —”

Benezet shook her head quickly. “This is exactly the kind of thing that Mr. Worldwide will keep doing —”

“ ‘Kind of thing?’ Fuck you.”

Benezet raised her voice. “— until we stop him.” 

“You didn’t even fucking notice.”

“I would have checked the news this morning if I wasn’t meeting you.”

“Please.”

“But —”

“I was drunk off my fucking ass this morning, and I still found out.”

“Are you drunk now?”

“No.” He smiled, barely. “We’re Cawdors. We sober up way too fast.”

A second passed. Then Benezet forced a sigh.

“So. Mr. Worldwide had Fife killed.”

“He did.” Croley folded his hands. “Are you gonna tell me I should have stopped him?”

“Of course not.”

“Good.”

“You had no opportunity to stop him.”

“E-fucking-xactly.”

“However, I’m here to give you the opportunity to stop him from doing things like this in future. The next time —”

“Fuck. Off,” Croley snarled.

Xander put his hand on Croley’s shoulder. His muscles felt like steel wire, even through his jacket. Then he closed his eyes tightly and deflated into the back of the booth. 

“Sorry, Xander.”

Benezet tapped one flawless nail steadily on the table. Xander watched her with a fiercely neutral expression.

“Mr. Worldwide will kill you,” she said to Croley.

Croley’s back straightened like he’d been shocked by an electric fence. He leaned over the table. “Yeah? What else is new?”

“Ben,” Xander said. “He knows.”

“That bastard has been trying to kill me for seven years,” Croley said. “You’re just on the fucking waitlist.”

She shrugged, more smoothly this time. “He wants all of us dead.”

“Yeah, and so do you, apparently!”

Xander looked over his shoulder. Three waiters were whispering behind the host station. He sighed.

“It’s him or us,” Benezet said.

“No. It’s die now, or die slightly later.”

“That won’t happen.”

“Great positive thinking.”

“At least I am thinking,” Benezet said, “about how we can fix this. You’ve completely given up.”

“You think I’m going to be the fucking king?”

“Technically, you are the king.”

Croley started to laugh.

“This isn’t funny.”

Croley kept laughing, high-pitched and almost doubled over the table.

“Ben,” Xander said. “You should go.”

“Xander, thank you for helping to get him out of the country during the coup. Really.”

He tilted his head. “You’re welcome.”

“But you’re not involved in this anymore. Leave us alone.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“You are.”

“He’s not gonna do that,” Croley said into the table.

“If you won’t listen to me while he’s here, he needs to go.”

“Excuse me.”

A woman in black stood at the end of the table. Red acrylic nails, stained with pen ink, tapped on her arm.

Xander sighed.

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the woman said.

Benezet flipped open her wallet and pulled out a pair of crisp hundred-pound bills. “We’ll only be here for a few more minutes,” she said in English.

The woman’s mouth flattened. Then she molded it into a polite smile and took the money. 

“Thank you, miss.”

Benezet smiled. “Of course.”

“Take your time.”

She was gone. For a moment, no one spoke.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Benezet asked Xander.

“Don’t worry about it.”

She shook her head quickly. “Why are you trying to stop him? Did the Secret Service put you up to this?”

Xander stared.

“What?” she asked.

He pressed one knuckle between his eyebrows. “Fucking hell,” he muttered.

Benezet turned to Croley. “I’m just going to take you outside.”

“No you’re fucking not. We’re leaving,” he said in English.

“Stop running away, Croley.”

He grinned savagely. “Too late!”

“Mr. Worldwide is a murderer and a dictator, and we’re the only ones who can stop him, so get off your ass —”

Croley laughed. “Which is it?”

“What?”

“Am I running away, or am I sitting on my ass?”

“You’re acting like a coward.”

“What else would I be?”

“We’re the only ones who can stop him. We’re going to bring him down.”

“No, ‘we’ ” — Croley’s air quotes were almost feral — “are going to walk into a motherfucking deathtrap so ‘we’ can be queen. I won’t.”

“We’re the Cawdors. Our family has — ”

“You didn’t even fucking call me.”

Benezet stopped.

“Seven years. No calls. No texts. No fucking — carrier pigeons, I don’t fucking know.”

“Well, you didn’t —”

“And now you want me to go and die for our family?”

Benezet lifted her hands aimlessly. “I —”

“Okay,” Croley said. “Let’s try this. I will accept your premise. I am the Crown Prince of Notland. I am first in line. Do you have any fucking idea what that’s like?”

“Yes.”

“Wrong. Dead fucking wrong.” He snorted. “Ha.”

“What?”

“Dead wrong.”

“Don’t joke about this!”

“Why can’t I make a couple jokes?” 

“It’s not funny.”

“I think it is.” Croley stretched his state-visit smile across his face until it tore. “I think it’s funny as all fucking hell. When I walk down the street, I can’t even see a car pull up next to me and not think, This is the one. This is the one that’s gonna be full of Secret Service agents. Bunch of fucking LARPers with their AKs and their dumbass fucking uniforms are going to jump out and I’m going to be dead on the sidewalk. Bada-bing. Bada-boom.”

Benezet was pale.

“Every — fucking — time. Even if it’s a VW fucking Bug.”

She opened her mouth. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Tell me that’s not fucking hilarious.” Croley leaned back. 

The restaurant was silent.

Xander lifted his head from his hands. “Let’s go.”

“Yeah.” Croley switched back to Nots Gaelic. “Just one more thing, Bennie — Xander, feel free to leave, this won’t take long. Bennie. You know who knows? You know who fucking knows?”

“Knows what?”

“What the shit this is like?”

Benezet’s mouth stretched into a thin green line. “No one, I assume.”

“Wrong!” Croley pointed at Xander, who hadn’t moved except to drop his head back into his hands. “He knows. He’s been here the whole goddamn time. Seven fucking years of this fucking shit.”

“Wait.”

“And in that seven years, not once has he asked me to hire my own goddamn firing squad.”

“No. What did you say about Xander?”

“Did you hear,” Croley said, “anything I just said?”

“He’s been here since the coup?”

“You didn’t —” Croley’s face cleared to blank confusion. He looked years younger. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I — he decided to stay with me.”

“Why did your math tutor —”

“He’s my boyfriend.”

“What?”

Croley half-laughed. “How did you not know?”

“Know what?”

“We’ve been dating since we were fifteen!”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah!”

Benezet tapped her nail on the table again, watching it like it was a golf ball flying towards the final green in the PGA Masters tournament. She started to cross her legs, then stopped. 

In the depths of the bistrot behind Croley and Xander, someone dropped their fork and swore quietly.

“Anyway,” Croley said. “I won’t go.”

“Croley —”

He stood. “See you later.”

Croley’s shoes echoed on the tile floor. He stepped through the door, stopped, and waved to Benezet. Then he let it fall shut behind him. The bell tinkled.

Xander shrugged one backpack strap over his shoulder.

“Wait,” Benezet said.

“What do you want.”

She held the folder out to him. “Take this.”

He sighed. “Why?”

“Just take it.”

He didn’t move.

“It has my contact information in it. In case Croley wants to try to talk again.”

Xander watched her. His intense, neutral look was back in place, like mirrored sunglasses in the sun. Finally, he took the folder and slid it into his backpack. He pinned a fifty-pound note under the ketchup bottle, said something Benezet couldn’t hear to the waiters clustered behind the host station, and left.

Benezet jammed a hundred under her water glass and followed him out, but by the time she was outside, blinking at the white sunlight and the swarm of engines, they were already gone.