The Guardians Chronicles

A knock sounded at the flat’s front door at exactly eleven a.m.

Keira opened it and broke into a genuine smile. “Richard! This is a surprise. How are you? I thought my mother said your nephew, Michael, was coming to fetch me.”

“Good mornin’, Miss Keira, top o’ the mornin’ to ye,” he said in his familiar Irish burr. “Och, that laddie still has a lot to learn. Been tryin’ to teach him the ropes before I hang up my keys for good. But I couldn’t pass up the chance to come and collect my favourite lass, now could I?” He winked theatrically.

Keira’s chest loosened. “I’m very glad it’s you.”

“Ain’t this the perfect Sunday for a bit o’ family do?” he rambled cheerfully as he took her overnight bag and led her to the black Bentley at the curb.

Within minutes they were heading north-east on the A12 towards the Wilde estate, sunlight flashing through the windscreen as Richard talked and Keira let the sound of his voice wash over her.

He caught her up on family news: her mother’s near-hysterics over the party planners “ruining” the croquet lawn, her father locking himself in his study to escape the chaos, the caterers’ last-minute crisis over champagne.

Keira laughed despite herself, picturing her parents exactly as he described. The affection beneath his teasing warmed her more than the weak spring sun.

Richard and his wife, Mary, had lived in a cottage on the estate for as long as Keira could remember. She’d spent half her childhood in Mary’s kitchen, curled in a chair with their fat ginger cat on her lap, listening to stories of Ireland as the scent of baking bread and rich stews filled the air.

They’d never had children. Keira had never asked why. Their cottage had simply, quietly, become her second home.

Her mother believed little girls belonged indoors, with dolls and tiny tea sets, not outside in mud and germs “where wild animals lurked.” Mary had silently disagreed and became Keira’s ally in hiding from the endless procession of nannies hired to turn her into a proper young lady.

It was Mary who had taught her the old names of the woods folk, never guessing that Keira would go out into the trees and whisper those names to foxes, deer, and squirrels and that they would seem, somehow, to understand.

Richard had been the one to dry her tears every time he delivered her back to St. Catherine’s after holidays. Keep yer chin up, that’s a good lass, he’d say, his big hand warm on her shoulder.

Today, his usual chatter couldn’t quite disguise the way he kept glancing at her in the rear-view mirror, worry etched in the crinkles around his eyes.

---

Her shoulders tightened as they approached the tall black wrought-iron gates of the estate. Get a grip. She pressed her fingertips to her temples. You’re not a stammering child anymore.

“You all right, lass?” Richard asked, eyeing her in the mirror.

“Yes. Just a bit of a headache.”

“Och, too many late nights?” he teased gently.

“Something like that,” she said, managing a faint smile.

He punched a code into the security box. The gates swung open and the Bentley rolled forward, tyres crunching over the long gravel drive.

They passed under ancient beeches and alongside neat rail fences enclosing fields of lush green pasture. In the distance, the land shifted to lavender meadows, then to the darker fringe of woodland beyond.

The woods had always been her refuge. Cool glades, dappled light, the constant murmur of leaves and water. She’d spent hours there as a child, roaming as free as the wind that always seemed to follow her.

It was there she’d first learned the muttered language of trees and the burbling laughter of the stream. There she had met Nagwa—raven, companion, co-conspirator—who had made her feel less like a mistake and more like a part of something older.

Her parents had dismissed her “chattering to animals” as childish imagination. It wasn’t until she went away to boarding school at six that she realised just how different she was. She remembered coming home that first Easter after the disastrous first term. The moment she could escape the house, she’d run straight to the woods, heart in her throat, terrified that sending Nagwa away to keep him safe had made him leave forever.

He had been waiting. She’d cried into his feathers, clinging to the comfort of his presence for hours. She’d learned a simple, brutal truth: people feared what they couldn’t explain. It was safer to stay silent.

“Here we are, lass,” Richard said, easing the Bentley to a stop beside the ornamental white-marble fountain.

“Thank you, Richard.” Keira squeezed his shoulder. “Tell Mary I’ll come and say hallo as soon as I can escape.”

“Not to worry, not to worry.” He smiled. “She’ll be up to her elbows in pots all day, making sure everything’s perfect. You see to family business first, then come over for a proper cuppa when the dust has settled.”

“I will. See you later.”

Keira stepped onto the gravel and inhaled the crisp country air. The house rose before her. A double-storey echo of history, austere yet elegant with its weathered red brick, tall chimneys and steep clay-tiled roof. Tall bay windows glittered in the morning light.

Home. Sort of.

She climbed the wide flagstone steps to the front door. She’d last seen her parents at St. Catherine’s graduation ceremony two weeks earlier. Her mother had been far from pleased that Keira hadn’t returned home immediately.

Cylvia Wilde would no doubt bring that up—repeatedly—along with every other perceived shortcoming: the refusal to have a debutante ball, the lack of an approved boyfriend, the inconvenient streak of independence.

It wasn’t going to be a relaxing day.

But she couldn’t skip it. It was her parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary, as well as her mother’s sixtieth birthday.

The door opened before she could knock. An unfamiliar maid stepped aside to let her in.

Mother’s fired another one, Keira thought, stepping into the cool, white hall.

Flowers exploded everywhere in huge, carefully arranged bouquets which flaunted colour and scent. The chandelier glittered. The sweeping oak staircase shone under a recent polish. Whatever else Keira felt about the house, she couldn’t deny its beauty. Her mother did have exquisite taste.

Voices drifted from the formal sitting room on the right, soft conversations punctuated by Cylvia’s high, girlish laugh.

“Okay,” Keira murmured. “Showtime.”

She squared her shoulders and walked in.

“Keira! Darling!” Cylvia glided toward her, arms open. Her white silk blouse and charcoal trousers skimmed a figure she worked hard to maintain. A double strand of Tahitian black pearls rested on her collarbones. Mother and daughter shared the same fine bone structure; where Keira’s hair was dark, Cylvia’s was salon-perfect blonde.

Keira hugged her carefully, wary of upsetting the architecture of her hair or makeup. Cylvia stepped back, giving her a critical once-over.

“Turquoise suits you. New dress?”

“Sammy made it,” Keira said. “Happy birthday. And happy anniversary.”

Cylvia accepted the neatly wrapped present and set it aside on a nearby table without more than a cursory glance.

Well, that was a productive pilgrimage to Harrods, Keira thought wryly.

“Thank you, darling.” Cylvia linked her arm through Keira’s. “We were just saying how it seems to take a major event to lure you home, isn’t that right, Steven?” she called over her shoulder.

Keira’s father ambled over, tugging at his tight collar with one finger.

“Hallo, Princess,” he rumbled.

Keira smiled at the nickname and hugged him. The familiar smell of Old Spice clung to him. The bow tie and dark suit looked wrong on his slightly rumpled, professorish frame; he was more at home in tweed than in anything fashionable.

“Never mind, Cylvia,” he said serenely. “Our girl deserves a bit of breathing space after twelve years of school.”

“Hmm,” Cylvia sniffed. “As long as that breathing space is spent productively.”

Steven tucked Keira’s arm more firmly through his. “Come say hello to Victoria. She’s been hounding me all morning, saying she hasn’t seen you in months.”

“Don’t keep her too long, Steven. We still need to discuss college,” Cylvia called after them.

“Yes, dear,” he replied, then winked at Keira. “Today is for family. We’ll talk about that later, Princess.”

They walked together toward the marble fireplace, co-conspirators in a small rebellion.

On the chaise longue, more regal than any crowned royal, sat Aunt Victoria.

Keira couldn’t stop her grin. Victoria held court effortlessly, directing younger relatives to fetch champagne and canapés with a tilt of her chin. Her back was ramrod straight, silver-grey hair swept into an immaculate chignon. The powder-blue Chanel suit looked like it had been created for her and her alone.

“Well, well. The prodigal deigns to return,” Victoria said sternly, but the sparkle in her eyes softened the words.

Keira bent to hug her. “Hello, Aunt Vic.”

“Sit,” Victoria ordered, patting the seat beside her.

Her current flock of admirers drifted away with the same unspoken understanding that they’d be summoned again when needed. When they were alone, Victoria took Keira’s hand.

“So,” she said quietly. “What’s this I hear about college?”

Keira’s stomach dipped. She hadn’t decided how much to confess yet. “Well…”

Victoria simply waited.

“I don’t want to go,” Keira blurted, then held her breath.

Her aunt said nothing, gaze steady, inviting more.

“I mean… not yet. It’s not that I’ll never go. I just want to travel first. See something beyond lecture halls. Take photos. Maybe write. Find out who I am when I’m not doing exactly what I’m told.”

A small smile touched Victoria’s mouth. “There’s a streak of adventurer’s blood in you, my dear.”

“Useful, isn’t it,” Keira muttered. “Now if only this family didn’t see ‘adventurer’ as a synonym for ‘disappointment.’ It’s all: go to college, get the sensible job, make us proud, be productive—”

Victoria patted her knee. “We will talk properly later. You may find there are more options and more expectations than you realise.”

Ignoring Keira’s puzzled look, she smoothly changed the subject. “No young man to report on, then? When I was your age—”

Keira tuned out the familiar monologue with half an ear. Aunt Vic, Victoria to most of the world and “Aunt Vic” to a select few, had inherited a considerable fortune from her first husband and had never remarried. She’d invested well and was now comfortably, unapologetically wealthy. The younger cousins clustered around her like hopeful satellites, taking her orders with patient smiles, quietly calculating potential inheritance shares.

They’d probably be waiting a while. She looked more vigorous than any of them.

Keira let her gaze wander around the room. Faces blurred into a collage of half familiar faces and polite smiles, relatives she hadn’t seen in years, partners of cousins whose weddings she’d missed and new babies whose christenings happened while she was away at school. Children darted between adults’ legs, playing their own games. Through the open windows, she could see the white marquee in the garden and hear the soft drift of music.

“Ah, there you are. What kept you?” Aunt Vic’s tone turned crisp, snapping Keira back.

She looked up.

Her breath stopped.

The same cobalt-blue eyes from outside Harrods met hers.

“My apologies,” Marco said, bending to kiss Victoria’s hand. “There were matters that needed attention.”

“Well then, Keira, allow me to introduce Marco Santana,” Victoria said. “He’s visiting from Argentina. We have certain business interests in common.”

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” Marco said, turning to Keira. He took her hand and brushed his lips lightly over her knuckles.

Heat shot up her arm.

“How—what are you doing here?” she asked, staggered by the coincidence. It took her a moment to realise he was still holding her hand. She tugged it back, flustered.

“Victoria invited me,” he said mildly.

“You know that’s not what I meant. Yesterday—”

“Yesterday I was buying a gift for your mother, collided with you, and now here we are,” he replied. “How is your knee?”

“Your knee?” Victoria cut in. “What about it?”

“It’s fine,” Keira said quickly. “Just a scrape.”

“Hmph,” Victoria muttered, shooting Marco a pointed look. “And you didn’t bother to dress for the occasion, I see.”

His open-necked white shirt and dark jeans did stand out amid the sea of dark suits and ties, but somehow he looked more comfortable, more real, than any man in the room.

He only laughed and reclaimed Keira’s hand. Offering his other arm to Victoria, he said, “I believe the orchestra has started. May I escort you to your table?”

Keira had no choice but to walk with them. She fixed a polite smile on her face and tried to ignore the solid warmth of his arm beneath her fingers and the treacherous little voice inside whispering that none of this was coincidence.

Under the marquee, round tables glittered with crystal and silver. White plates gleamed against lace tablecloths and flowers cascaded from tall glass vases. Fairy lights draped the roof and strung themselves between poles, casting everything in a soft golden glow. A small orchestra in the corner played unobtrusive classical pieces.

Marco pulled out a chair for Victoria, then for Keira, before sitting between them. The speeches began and Keira clinked glasses, smiled when expected, and applauded in the right places, all on autopilot.

The dull ache at the base of her skull expanded into a full-fledged headache. Laughter, chatter, cutlery, music, everything blurred into one relentless, throbbing hum.

The first chance she had, she excused herself and slipped back into the house. She took the stairs two at a time, turned into her mother’s bedroom, and yanked open drawers until she found a bottle of aspirin. She shook two into her palm and swallowed them dry.

Eyes closed, she pressed her hand to her forehead.

“Are you okay?”

She jumped. Spinning around, she stumbled straight into Marco’s chest. His hands closed around her elbows, steadying her.

“This feels familiar,” he drawled.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, tilting her head back to glare at him.

“You looked unwell when you left the table,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

His gaze moved over her face with such focused intensity that warmth crept up her neck. She pulled away from his grip.

“I’m fine. You can go back to the party.”

“Really?” His eyebrow arched, sceptical. This was clearly a man not used to being dismissed. He took a small step closer.

“Keira, darling, are you up here?” Cylvia’s voice echoed from the landing.

“Oh, hell. My mother.” Panic seized Keira. The last thing she needed was to be found alone in a bedroom with an unfamiliar man.

“In here,” Marco murmured, catching her hand. He tugged her toward the walk-in wardrobe. He eased her inside and shut the door behind them.

The narrow space was crammed with Cylvia’s wardrobe. Silk, fur, and designer labels pressed together in dense, expensive abundance.

Outside, Cylvia’s heels clicked on the hardwood floor. “I was sure I heard voices,” she muttered. Drawers slid open and shut. A compact snapped. “Where did I put that powder…”

Keira stood absolutely still, back pressed against a rail of dresses. Marco’s hand still rested lightly on her arm.

She wanted to hiss at him to move away, to stop radiating heat, but she didn’t dare make a sound.

He leaned down, lips close to her ear. “Am I annoying you?” he whispered.

His breath brushed her skin and sparks shot down her spine. She bit down on a curse and stared fixedly at a row of sequinned gowns.

What is wrong with you, Keira? the prim voice in her head snapped. Two nights ago you nearly killed a man for touching you, and now you’re melting because this one whispers in your ear?

This is different, another, softer voice sighed.

Fantastic, she thought. Now I’ve got multiple personalities.

She forced herself to look at him properly, if only to distract herself. A thin scar tracked from the corner of his mouth down into the cleft of his chin. His nose had clearly met a fist or two in its time. This wasn’t a carefully groomed city boy with artfully styled hair. His dark hair was cut for function, not fashion. His face belonged outdoors, in weather and wind.

He was nothing like the polished young men her parents approved of.

Outside, Cylvia’s footsteps moved away. A door shut.

Keira shoved Marco back and slipped out of the wardrobe, heart racing. At the top of the stairs, she paused long enough to breathe, to smooth her hair and watch her mother head back towards the marquee.

Only when she could arrange her features into something approximating calm did she follow at a measured pace.

Back at the table, Victoria’s sharp eyes swept over her flushed face and slightly tousled hair.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes. Just a headache,” Keira said, reaching for her water glass.

“Hmm.” Victoria took a sip of champagne, clearly unconvinced. “You haven’t told me, how are your charming friends, Sammy and Alison?”

“They’re fine,” Keira replied, taking a long drink. “Also happy to be done with school.” She didn’t volunteer the detail that she was staying alone at the flat.

“Good. So you have a few more weeks’ freedom before you need to decide your next steps?”

“Yes. We’re just… enjoying the time,” Keira said.

“Good,” Victoria repeated, eyes glinting with some private knowledge that made Keira feel vaguely on display.

Marco reappeared at that moment and slid back into his seat beside Keira. Her shoulders tensed. She turned toward the elderly gentleman on her other side, who was hard of hearing and eager to talk about his glory days in the Navy.

The afternoon dragged.

Keira smiled and nodded through stories of newborns and wedding plans. By the third divorce tale, she thought she might actually scream. Berating herself for being uncharitable didn’t help.

Questions about her future and non-existent love life were non-stop. She dodged as many as she could. She only partly managed to evade cousin Giselle, who paused at the table to introduce her fiancé and more importantly, her sizeable diamond ring.

He had just graduated from Cambridge, would be interviewing at Keira’s father’s firm, and wasn’t it wonderful how everything was lining up for them? Giselle touched her hair and forehead repeatedly, flashing the ring so often it was a miracle she didn’t sprain a finger.

Keira gritted out her congratulations, feeling the weight of Marco’s attention even when he said nothing. His gaze lingered on the back of her neck, making her alternately flush hot and then go cold.

He didn’t try to speak to her again. She couldn’t decide if that was a relief or an irritation.

Eventually, after enough time had gone by to make a reasonably accepted exit, she said her goodbyes to her parents and Aunt Vic, promised—many times—to visit more often, and very deliberately didn’t look at Marco.

Before leaving, she ducked into the kitchen to hug Mary, who was red-cheeked, bossing waiters and tasting sauces. There was no time for a proper visit, but the brief embrace steadied her.

Then she finally slid into the back seat of the Bentley, where Richard already waited.

As the car rolled back down the gravel drive, Keira let herself sink into the leather, eyes closing, exhaustion washing over her like a tide.