“I’m sorry,” Evie said, struggling to prevent her voice from rising, because long experience had taught her that reacting only urged Jacob to new heights of bad behaviour, “you did what?”
Jacob lounged in the chair, catlike and comfortable, one torn-trousered leg over the arm, “I broke into Westminster Abbey and sat on the Coronation chair.”
Evie shrugged, though a small secret part of her soul wished she’d thought of it first, “Don’t think that makes you king.”