The Rebel's Plot

Chapter 15

"Hey, love, slow down a bit, yeah?" Pierre calls, his voice soft but teasing, as he reaches out to catch my wrist. I smile, letting him wrap my arm around his. We've just left Piccadilly Circus, still laughing about the little spin he pulled me into under the statue of Eros, right there in the center. He's got this thing for making me dance at the oddest moments, and I won't say I mind—not even with the tourists watching. It's midnight, after all, and we might as well claim the city as our own.

We head south on Regent Street, our pace now slower, with Pierre pulling me closer as we dodge the few late-night stragglers still about. The shop windows cast a warm glow on the pavement, and our reflections follow us, ghost-like, in the glass. A few streets down, we turn left onto Coventry Street, slipping into Leicester Square. It's quieter here, just the hum of the last shows letting out, and the lights strung above seem softer somehow, as if the whole place is winding down with us.

We stroll through Leicester Square and then on towards Trafalgar, with the lights of the National Gallery glowing in the distance. He nudges me gently, pointing out how grand everything looks at night, the buildings standing like watchful giants around us. I pretend not to care, but he knows me too well—I'm absolutely enchanted.

From Trafalgar Square, we walk down Whitehall, letting the night air clear our heads as the city's heart beats a little slower now. Then we reach Parliament Square, where Big Ben gleams down at us like he's in on some secret we're supposed to figure out. Pierre squeezes my hand, giving me that sideways grin he has, and we step onto Westminster Bridge.

There's a moment when we both pause halfway, leaning on the railing and just watching the Thames roll by beneath us. The South Bank lights are scattered across the water, and I'm taken by how calm it feels. We cross, and once on the other side, we settle into a quiet rhythm along the riverside, London sprawling out before us, a midnight city all ours for the taking.

I can't bear how we're unable to capture instants like this. If I could, I'd record every bit of it to keep forever. It's maddening to think that by tomorrow, this will be nothing more than a memory, with no way of stepping back into that fleeting second to feel it again. It's as though I'm floating beyond the atmosphere, peering down at Earth through the Hubble Telescope, which is located 326 miles—equivalent to 525 kilometres—above the planet's surface, or watching it play out on a DVD, but there's no remote to rewind. And the frustrating part is, it's all rather hazy—like waking up from a marvellous dream.

"You good?"

Pierre pinches my palm, confirming that this isn't a hallucination and that I'm truly in London. I miss all of this more than I ever realised until now.

I nod, "Yeah."

Although I wasn't born here and spent my childhood in Edinburgh, this is still where my roots lie—Midways, the very essence of who I am. I take pride in being a Midways; it's just that being the daughter of Philip Midways feels utterly abysmal. I swear I could thrive here just as much as I do in Scotland, rather than enduring life with him in the States.

There are countless things I adore about America, yet during my time living under his roof for the past few years, Philip has instilled in me a deep sense of inadequacy, which has bred bitterness in me to all aspects of my life. This constant reminder taints my perception of my environment, preventing me from truly appreciating the beauty that envelops me as I ought to.

Having returned here, no one—not even Philip—can make me go back. I genuinely hope that when I finally get to see America again, in five to ten years or more, I'll be able to experience it the way it deserves, rather than just getting by.

"It's absolutely brilliant to be back home, innit?"

Pierre's fingers loosen around mine, his index finger absentmindedly tracing lazy circles on my palm.