Page 124 of One Last Stand

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This was not how the story was supposed to end.

London stood by the piano, listening to his footsteps fading away, still listening as he went down the stairs, then, when the sound died, she turned to walk to the window.

She watched him leave through the gate.

Shep.

She put her hand on her chest. Outside, the sky turned dour, pewter gray, the snow peeling softly down to melt into the sidewalk and cobblestones.

No.

Maybe I should never have come back from the dead.

She hadn’t meant that—it’d just come out, andshoot, she was eighteen again, standing there in the bloody aftermath of Ruslan’s betrayal.

“Are you okay?”

She turned at the familiar British voice, her mouth opening as Pippa Marshall, best friend and current secretary to one Princess Imani of Lauchtenland, came into the room. “Pippa!” She met her friend’s hug.

Pippa wore a suit, of course, and heels, her dark hair back in a bun. But some of the tension lines in her face had softened, her bun not quite so tight.

“You look good,” London said, scrabbling to find her voice. “Marriage suits you.”

“It does,” Pippa said. “I never thought . . . you know . . . me. Married.”

“I was there. I signed the papers.”

“I remember the covert operation.”

London laughed. “Fraser thought sneaking you to the altar might be the only way.”

“He knows me. And speaking of—was that Shep Watson I saw leaving the embassy? Your mother is meeting with the princess, and I came out to check on our flight back to Lauchtenland. He didn’t look happy.”

Oh. “Yeah. I uh, he uh . . . You know, it’s probably my fault for thinking I could settle down, live in one place?—”

“Oh, that’s a lie.” Pippa tugged her over to the sofa, pulled her down beside her. “Take it from someone who thought her only life was in protective services. There is more to you than being a”—she cut her voice low—“Black Swan.”

London wished. “I don’t know. The fact is, sometimes I don’t know who I am. Part Swan, part pilot, part . . . dreamer, maybe?”

“Oh, the Princess Delaney thing.”

“Silly.”

“No. Listen. You’reallof that, London.”

“It sounds like an identity crisis to me.”

“Really. You know who doesn’t have an identity crisis?”

“You?”

“God.”

London gave her a sideways look.

“Three persons in one Godhead. And yet perfectly expressed in different ways.”

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