Pippa dropped a duffel bag onto the dining table.
"Here," she said. "I took the liberty of packing some of your clothes before I left. If it's not enough, you can buy more somewhere."
We had returned to her father's flat from the British Museum not long ago. Now that I was apparently wanted for helping a fugitive escape, running seemed to be my only option too. Going back to the hospital, back to my old life, was no longer possible.
I pulled Pippa into a tight hug. "Thank you," I murmured against her shoulder.
She patted my back once before we pulled apart. "You'd do the same for me."
Then she turned to Marcus.
He stood beside me, his jaw clenched, watching everything unfold with quiet intensity. There was a tension in his posture that suggested he hated feeling helpless, and unable to do anything about it.
"Take care of her," Pippa told him. "I'll try to retrieve your sword. Once you have it, you can complete your promise...and go back."
Marcus gave a single, solemn nod.
Just then, Uncle Alan entered the living room carrying another duffel bag. He set it down beside mine on the table.
"And this," he said, glancing at Marcus, "is yours. Clothes I ordered online. Express delivery. Thought they might suit you."
Marcus inclined his head. "Thank you."
Uncle Alan nodded once in return.
"Right," he said briskly, clapping his hands together. "No time to waste. You two should get moving."
Pippa grabbed my arm and steered me toward the door. Marcus slung the duffel bag over his shoulder, along with my own like it weighed nothing. His movements quick but controlled, like a solider preparing to leave camp.
My heart was already racing.
We had just reached the hallway when the doorbell rang. The sharp chime cutting through the flat like a gunshot.
Everyone froze.
Pippa slowly turned toward the wall-mounted screen beside the door and tapped it. The video flicking to life.
A man stood outside the building entrance, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark coat. A woman stood slightly behind him, his partner.
Garrick.
My stomach dropped.
"Well," Uncle Alan muttered under his breath. "That was fast."
Pippa looked between Marcus and I. "Go. Now."
The doorbell rang again.
Uncle Alan straightened his sweater and walked calmly toward the door, tapping the button that let them in. His expression settling into polite neutrality.
"We'll stall them," he said quietly, then turning to me. "Head to Newcastle, to the Great North museum. Find Victoria Bennett."
Marcus's hand closed around mine.
"Come," he murmured.
Pippa ushered us toward the back stairwell that led to the building's lower level just as they entered the townhouse.
"This is where I leave you," she said in hushed tones. "Good luck."
My pulse thundered in my ears as Marcus and I slipped through the service door and began descending the narrow staircase.
Above us, the front door opened.
Voices drifted down the stairwell.
"Professor Cheung," Garrick said, his voice echoing through the hall.
Marcus's arm slid firmly around my waist, pulling me closer as we reached the bottom of the stairs. We pressed ourselves into the shadow of the corridor just as footsteps sounded overhead.
"Detective Garrick," Uncle Alan replied pleasantly. "What a surprise. To what do I owe the visit? And who might this be? Your new paramour?"
Marcus's hand tightened slightly at my side.
We waited, barely breathing, until the sound of Garrick and his partner moving deeper into the flat faded.
Then Marcus leaned close to my ear, his proximity sending shivers down my spine.
"Now," he whispered.
Keeping low, his arm still wrapped protectively around me, we slipped through the back exit and disappeared into the street.
He still kept his hand there even as I led him around another corner. I was still debating whether to take him to the Underground, since we'd reach the train station faster that way, but I had no idea how he would handle the crowds.
"If speed is required, then we shall be swift," he murmured, his lips close to my ear.
We were already several blocks away from the townhouse. By now we should have been safe enough. He didn't need to keep me this close.
And yet, for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to pull away either.
"Do not concern yourself with me," he said quietly. "If I can walk these streets without feeling overwhelmed, then I shall endure whatever else you have in mind."
"Well," I said, gesturing ahead, "I was debating whether we should take that vehicle." I pointed toward a red bus rumbling down the street. Then my finger shifted toward the entrance of the London Underground ahead of us. "Or that one, which is faster and travels beneath the city."
"Beneath?" he repeated, brows lifting. "Underground? Would we still be able to breathe? Or would we be buried alive?"
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. "Then the bus it is."
He shook his head, adjusting the duffel bag on his shoulder.
"No," he said firmly. "We take the latter. I will endure it."
I stopped walking and turned to face him.
"In that case," I said, "don't forget to breathe. Don't overthink it. Just keep moving. That's the best I can give you right now."
He gave a short nod.
And so we went.
The entrance to the London Underground swallowed us quickly, down the tiled stairwell, past the turnstiles, deeper into the steady rush of commuters moving through the station. The air was warmer underground, filled with the hum of trains and the murmur of voices echoing along the platform.
At first, Marcus walked beside me without a word.
Then I felt it.
The subtle change in his posture. The way his hand stiffened slightly in mind.
I tightened my grip before he could pull away.
When I looked up at him, his expression had gone taut. Those dark eyes of his flicking briefly toward the tunnel, the crowds, the low ceiling pressing in from every direction.
"Marcus," I said softly. "Look at me."
His gaze dropped immediately to mine.
"Don't think about anything else," I murmured. "Just follow me. Breathe."
He nodded once.
And he did.
He kept his eyes on me as I led him toward the arriving train, the wind rushing along the platform as it screeched into a halt. The doors slid open with a mechanical chime.
Marcus hesitated only a fraction of a second before stepping inside behind me, his eyes widening slightly as he crossed the threshold.
The carriage rocked gently as people shifted around us.
I guided his hand to the metal railing beside the door. "Hold this."
He obeyed, gripping the pole as if it were the only solid thing in the world.
For a moment, he closed his eyes.
His shoulders tensed. His breath uneven. He was close to losing consciousness that my heart lurched with alarm.
"Marcus."
I reached up and cupped his face, forcing his attention back to me.
His eyes opened immediately.
"Breathe," I said quietly.
His gaze locked onto mine, steadying.
"Just breathe."
The train jolted forward, the tunnel swallowing the light beyond the windows as we sped into the darkness beneath the city.
And as I stood there, holding onto the face of a man who had once commanded Roman legions while guiding him through the London Underground, one ridiculous thought drifted through my mind.
I couldn't believe I was bringing a Roman general on the London Underground.