

THE LUX GUARDIANS

Book One·

The Forgotten

Saruuh Kelsey

For my mum.

For everything.

Copyright © Saruuh Kelsey 2017

2017 VERSION

This book has been majorly edited and improved since its initial publishing in 2013. If you have downloaded The Forgotten before May 2017, tweet me (@saruuhkelsey) or email me (saruuhkelsey@hotmail.com) and I'll send you the new second edition!

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**The right of Saruuh Kelsey to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988**

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Cover and book design by Saruuh Kelsey

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About The Forgotten (The Lux Guardians, book 1)

When Honour breaches the fence around Forgotten London, he becomes #1 on the world leader's hit list. To save his life, Honour joins an underground rebellion. But Honour is no fighter, and he may have just put himself – and his sister – in even more danger.

In 1878, when Branwell and Bennet's genius father is murdered and an invention is stolen, the siblings discover his work is linked to the future destruction of the world. But when they're transported to a derelict place far from home, how will they reclaim the stolen device?

The Forgotten is the first book in the Lux Guardians series, a post-apocalyptic sci-fi thriller with a historical twist. If you like sinister plots, desperate survival stories, and world-changing revolutions, you'll love this story of family, friendship, and rebellion!

Pronunciation guide

Honour - HON·ur

Horatia - Hoh·RAY·shee·ah

Branwell - BRAN·well

Bennet - BEN·it

Yosiah - Yuh·SIGH·ah

Miya - MEE·ah

Dalmar - DAL·mar

Hele - HEY·le

Olympiae - OL·im·pee·ay

Table of Contents

The Disappearance of The Lux

18.09

19.09

20.09

21.09

26.09

27.09

29.09

01.10

The Discovery of Origin

02.10

03.10

04.10

05.10

06.10

07.10

08.10

09.10

I

The Disappearance of The Lux

## Honour

01:00. 18.09.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

Tonight I'm attempting another escape.

My twin sister, Horatia, sleeps curled around a ratty cushion, her long limbs pulled awkwardly close to her chest. Behind the cushion, held against her heart, is the tiny stuffed bear our father gave us when we were born, before he gave us away.

Her dark hair is pulled into a French plait even in sleep but a mess of hair from her fringe has fallen into her eyes and I brush it back with my fingers, gentle and careful not to wake her. If she woke I know she'd convince me to stay, like she did last night and the night before.

I can't let her stop me again. The past two attempts I've made to breach the border, Horatia has managed to stop me and bring me back to the small terrace house we share with three other families. Not this time, though. I'm careful to make my feet light and soundless as I tiptoe away from the mattress we share and slide my rucksack onto my shoulder. I take a small vial from my pocket and tip its contents over the door's hinges. Oil—a luxury only the wealthy and people of high status in Underground London Zone can afford. I traded a set of overalls for this small amount of it, but it's worth the price. I have to find a way through the electric fence that surrounds our town.

Two weeks ago I found a letter that told me to get out of Forgotten London, my home, and to go to the free, diseased lands in the north. And I intend to.

Horatia doesn't know about the letter because I don't know how to tell her, but I have to find a way to get her past the border before she questions my actions. At the moment she thinks I'm rebelling against the oppressed state that we live in and the restrictions on our lives. She's wrong. It's something more, something bigger. I have to get my family away from Forgotten London before States has a chance to do what they're planning to.

The door opens silently, thankfully, and closes behind me with a minimal click. I make my way onto the dark streets outside without a sound.

There are patrols on the main streets, but I keep to the back roads and empty alleyways and come across no one. It takes me a full two hours to reach the closest border in Ealing Zone. It will take me two and a quarter hours to get back, since there are twice as many patrols after five a.m. I have forty five minutes to attempt to get through the fence and then begin walking back so I can get home before Horatia wakes up at six a.m. when the factory crates go rattling down the road.

My first problem with getting to the fence is the military guards—Officials, in their black uniforms—that stand every ten metres along the border, but I've got past them before. The last time I took advantage of a brawl that broke out in Hounslow, the neighbouring zone—an area that is almost completely made up of bars, pubs, and fight houses—but the zone is quiet tonight. I spend five minutes analysing my surroundings, taking my time down to forty minutes, but I come up with a plan.

Along the border are electric lampposts. The guards stand under them so that they won't be caught off guard by a drunken civilian or an idiot attempting to escape. About twenty metres in front of me, twenty metres closer to the Officials, is an electric box. I don't know the proper word for it, but I do know that inside is some kind of machine that keeps the lampposts working. All I need is a few minutes of darkness to hide me so I can see if it's possible to break through the barrier. That's all I'm trying to do: see if it's actually possible.

I would have found out three nights ago if the Officials hadn't returned to the border quicker than I thought they would. If I hadn't ran I'd have been caught. Not tonight, though.

I take a deep breath, drop to my knees, and inch out from behind the building I'm hidden by.

The ground is rough and covered in dust and small, jagged rocks that cut my hands and knees as I crawl towards the box, but I ignore the sting and the voice in my head that says I'll have to sew the torn hole in my jeans later, and force myself forward.

The Officials don't notice me. They don't even blink. Three of them are gathered together in a group, laughing and joking about something I can't hear.

Their raucous laughter would calm my nerves, would reassure me that they aren't paying attention to me, that I'm not in any immediate danger, if I were scared. The nervous rush that goes through people when faced with danger; the hair standing on end, sweaty palms, hard breathing, heart pounding, hands shaking kind of fear is something I have never experienced. Not even when one of the machines in the clothing factory I work in veered in the wrong direction and took off the little finger on my right hand. Not even then did I feel scared or even a hint of nervousness. All I remember thinking was that I should use a scrap of fabric to soak up the blood, and that I'd definitely be arrested, or maybe even executed if the nearest Official felt that way out, for using the clothes we manufacture as a bandage.

So when I reach the electric box I don't feel relieved that I haven't been seen or caught or shot. I just feel irritated that my jeans are ripped and Horatia will know I've been out.

In my backpack I find a laser cutter that my friend Dalmar commandeered from the weapons factory he works in. It cuts easily through the steel lock on the metal box and I'm careful to catch it before it hits the ground. Fear or not, I don't want to alert the guards to my presence.

There's a circuit board inside, like one I saw inside Dalmar's computer one time. It took him almost an hour to explain to me that it was the thing connecting all the components, keeping the computer working. Technology isn't something I understand, or ever will. I'm still not completely sure what the word _component_ means.

I think about cutting through all of the wires on the board with the laser, but a second thought makes me realise that the Officials would know someone had tampered with it. I can pass off the missing lock as one of the guards forgetting to put it on, but cut wires would be a dead giveaway.

I go for a large wire that splits off into seven smaller wires, plugging into seven holes on the board, and I yank out the bigger end. For three seconds nothing happens, and then the area sinks into complete darkness. I can still see by the moonlight, but the guards are confused and angry if their loud voices are anything to go by. Momentary chaos. I try not to smile.

I don't waste any more time. I run to the large area of fence that was left unguarded by the three Officials grouping together. There's a guard fifteen metres to my right, and three twenty metres to my left. If any of them see me, I'll go for the right. I reckon I can take on one guard and then run back to the coverage of the zone's buildings before the others catch on. I've been in a few bar fights when we were really low on money and I won three of the five fights I fought in. That must mean I'm not bad at using my fists. Definitely not Official standard and probably not enough to knock one out but maybe enough to distract one. I hope I don't have to find out.

I don't get close to the fence, since being electrocuted by its powerful current isn't part of my plan, and that's when I notice something odd about the low thrumming that always surrounds the metal mesh—it's gone. I must have turned the fence's electricity off when I cut the lights. Well that's good to know. I never managed to get past the electricity before.

I guesstimate I have twenty five minutes until I have to return, and about five minutes max' before one of the Officials stumbles upon me. I act quickly.

Cutting through the fence with the laser, I'm careful to hide the red glow with my body. Tentatively, I touch the barrier with a finger. I was right. It's not powered. My hands are shaking now, and a rush of adrenaline shoots through me. I take a deep breath and hesitate. Dangerous, with Officials nearby, but this is a life changing moment and I want to make it last. I run my hand fully across the fence, just making sure, and then slip my body through the split I created with the laser.

For a minute it feels like time has stopped, but I realise that's just my breathing and then my breath comes out all at once. I roll my sleeve up to get to my watch—an old, rusty thing that I had to trade a lot of stuff for—and move my wrist until a beam of moonlight falls on its face. Twenty minutes until I need to turn around. Enough time to walk a little way into the wilderness of the diseased lands.

I put one heavy, numb-feeling foot in front of the other and walk around an area that a fortnight ago I never dreamed of being in. This is crazy. Horatia won't believe me when I tell her, but I'm actually here—actually outside. For a while nothing matters and nothing moves. And then I remember that Horatia is going to kill me when I get back and I wince.

In the moonlight I can make out grass, endless grass. In the distance there are buildings. Deserted, definitely, but if my family and I manage to get out the way I just did—unnoticed—then it's somewhere to hide for the night. I laugh suddenly and accidentally, and clap my hand over my mouth. I turn to see if the Officials heard, but I'm too far away now for them to hear anything.

I grin once reality sinks in, and I stop walking and stare at the open field. The quiet is the first thing I notice. All my life I've been surrounded by noise—the groaning of old houses, the churning of machinery, the choreographed thuds of boots on gravel, the rabble of voices—that I've never really experienced true silence. Everything hums and thrums, and whirrs and clicks, but here it's simple, complete silence. I like it. It makes me feel calm, and free.

I feel unrestrained, and weirdly peaceful.

I spend a long time thinking about what to do with this knowledge, but eventually I know there's only one thing I can do. I want to tell everyone, to gather every single person in Forgotten London and tell them that there is a way outside of the town, that there's a way to live outside of Officials and rations and forced work placements and fear. But I can't do that. I would risk everything if I did that. I would risk my family, my sister.

The only thing I can do is make sure I get Horatia out of Forgotten London before it's too late. I don't know if it's possible to live out here, or if we can even survive, but I have to try. We can't stay in Forgotten London anymore. It's not safe to stay a minute longer than necessary. I can't tell her how I know that or why I believe it so much, but she trusts me enough to trust what I believe in. I just hope our surrogate family, the people we live with, will trust me enough too.

Today I'm going to get all of our things together. I'm going to tell my friends goodbye. And then I'm going to tell my family.

I'm going to tell them that it's possible to get through the fence. That we can start a life outside of the border we've always known.

After a while I'll come back for my friends and I'll lead them to safety too. I'll save as many people as I can without being killed. But I won't risk Horatia. I won't let her die. And that's why we're going tomorrow night.

Tomorrow we're going to leave everything behind. We're going to escape Forgotten London.

***

Branwell

06:01. 18.09.1878. London.

My father has come into possession of the blueprints of an electric-powered streetlamp and has locked himself in his attic, tinkering with glass and filaments with abandon and no care for trivia things like eating and sleeping more than two hours a night. Inevitably, I have spent the past week with him almost constantly, aiding his investigation and invention as much as I can—which mostly involves offering a pair of hands, since my knowledge lies in biology, not mechanics and invention—and reminding him that mealtimes exist. He's trying to improve the technology of the lamp, to fuse it with the limitless power cell, named the Lux, that he invented last year. He won't tell me or even Benny, his darling daughter and my twin sister, what higher use he has in mind for the power; only that it is fundamental to some purpose.

At mid-morning I venture down from the attic and come face-to-face with my furious sister. She's been waiting for me.

"Can't you leave the attic for a single day, Branwell?" Her mottled green eyes shine brighter when she's angry, and her face flushes a dark red. She almost never uses my Sunday name. "That's all I ask," she continues. "To spend one whole day with you on our birthday."

"I'm sorry." I really am sorry, but father needs me more than Bennet does.

"Well? What excuse is it this time?"

I lower my head. "He's close to a breakthrough. He needs my assistance."

"What if _I_ need you?"

I can't think what Benny would need me for—unless she's attempting to bond with the horse father bought her for her last birthday again. "You could ask Edward to help with Dolly. I'm sure he won't mind."

"This isn't about the damned horse, Bran!" My head snaps up in shock and I falter when I see tears forming in her eyes. She cries even less than she says my full name. "This is about us. You're spending less time with me each day. You're making a point to avoid me in the corridors and at mealtimes. You never read to me anymore. All you ever do is lock yourself in the attic with father."

"Benny—"

"I don't want your excuses, Bran." She sounds resigned. My heart gives a painful tug.

"I want to spent time with you. It's just that father..."

"Yes, he needs you more than I do. You've said that a few times already."

"It's not that," I say loudly. I take a steadying breath and lower my voice. "I am helping him finish his work—the work he's been doing since before we were born, Benny—because I don't want him to leave it unfinished."

Her face shifts, something between comprehension and denial. She knows. She's too smart to not have figured it out.

Her voice quietens. "Why would he leave it unfinished? He's spent his entire life on it. He would never just leave it."

I whisper, "He doesn't have very long left."

Her voice shoots high. "Left until _what_?"

"He's _dying_." My voice cracks but I keep going. "And you know it. I know you do—I can see it in your eyes."

"I..." She shakes her head, eyes misty. "I didn't _know_. I suspected he was ill, but not dying. He _can't_ die. He's our father." She scans my face, desperate for agreement. I lower my eyes.

"He's not immortal."

"He's strong. He can fight it. He can—"

_"Bennet._ " I reach out and draw her to me. She's shaking, unsurprisingly. "It's progressed much too far. He did fight it, for a whole year, but now..."

"He can get better." Her voice is muffled by my shirt. It's a wonder she hasn't scolded me for discarding my waistcoat again.

"He _might_ get better. He might make a miraculous recovery." I swallow the lump in my throat. "But that's what it would be—miraculous. He's dying. His body has fought it, but the illness has won. I don't think there's anything we can do."

"But you're a genius." She pulls away from me with excited, feverish eyes. "You can figure something out." She takes a hold of my arm and begins towing me down the corridor. "You can invent a cure. You can find a way to stop it, to save him. I know you can. You're brilliant at everything. You'll find a way."

I stop in my tracks, planting my feet on the floor. Bennet lurches forward a few steps, and then turns to me with a heart-breaking, bewildered expression on her face.

"Bran ..."

"I have tried. Don't you think I've tried? I did every test I know, every experiment, every trial, and others besides them. I have done everything. It is too advanced."

Her expression hardens. "What _is_ it?"

I frown, not understanding.

"The illness—what is it? Is it a fever? A disease?"

I stare at a chipped wooden board in the floor. I'll have to ask Joel, our valet, to patch it up. He's the person we go to whenever something needs fixing. He can repair anything from a china cup to the complex pipe maze of the heating system my father invented for our home.

"Branwell!" Bennet yells and I still completely. Further along the corridor, near the stairwell, I hear a clattering noise that sounds like porcelain smashing and then an exclamation. My sister doesn't seem to notice.

"It's an advanced form of poison. That's all I could discover. It must be the result of a chemical he's worked with. It has grown progressively worse as time's worn on. And now ... the doctor says there is little hope for him."

"He went to a doctor?"

"The doctor says he has weeks," I continue, some wild animal writhing under my skin, "and I can find nothing to help him or even ease his pain."

"Bran, stop," she whispers. Her face had paled.

"Nothing works, and every second he lives he is _burning_ from the inside. Is that everything you wanted to know, Bennet, or do you desire to know the scientific details of the poison eating away at our father?"

There are tears on her cheeks. "Just please stop talking."

"I'm done."

I walk away from her, past damp stone walls into the cellar that is my room. In the cold, comforting familiarity of my room I find it impossible to hold onto the anger and everything slowly dissipates into hopelessness. I don't know why I shouted at Bennet.

For the remainder of the day I ignore all of the calls from the ground floor for me to go for dinner, and the ache inside my chest that urges me to return to the attic and make the most of the time I have left with my father.

At what I'd guess is five in the evening, Bennet comes down to my basement. I don't see the crack of light she lets in from above but I hear the soft click of her shoes on the stone. She crawls onto my bed and holds me while I fail to fight the tears. I gasp an apology and she shushes me, tightening her hold on me, always the protector, always the sensible, strong one.

I fall asleep eventually, cradled between the cold blanket of my wall and the warm reassurance of my sister, safe from thoughts about losing my father.

*

At some point during the night a commotion upstairs jolts me awake. Benny sits up, startled, and we both strain our ears.

"I'll go see—" She never finishes the sentence; Florence, our housemaid, glides quickly down the stairs. In the gloom of my room I can see that her hair has come loose from its normally impeccable bun and that her face is etched with anguish. I jump out of bed with a sinking feeling that I know what she's going to say.

"Oh, thank the Lord," Florence breathes. "It's your father. He's had a bad turn and he's asking for you."

"How is he?" Bennet asks, clasping her hands together. Even in the faint light I can see her eyes are dark with dread.

"Ill, Bennet. Very ill."

I don't hear Benny's reply; I'm already on the steps and running for the attic. My father should be resting in bed but I know he'll be in the attic, stubbornly refusing to leave the side of his life's work.

When I get there, panting for breath, I find him laid out on the floor with two blankets over him and a pillow under his head.

"Bran," he says upon seeing me, his voice so weak that my stomach drops right out of me. He fumbles for my hand and I kneel, gripping his tightly. He's worse than when I left him, worse than he's been all week. "You have to hide it."

I pull the blankets closer around him, fighting off tears. "Hide what?"

"Bury it. Hide it inside the earth. Keep it safe."

His mind is deteriorating too. Oh God, he's going to—I can't—

I swallow against the lump in my throat, battling to make my voice normal. "Keep what safe?"

"The Lux—my energy device. My inventions. All of them. Hide everything. Bury them deep underground. Keep them safe, keep everyone safe."

For a moment I just stare at him. "But ... bury them? Why?"

"They cannot fall into the wrong hands, Branwell. If the wrong people were to possess them ..." He stares at me with an empty gaze, his train of thought gone.

I whisper, "What?" I'm leaning closer to him to catch every strained utterance. He gets quieter with every word. "What would happen? Who's going to find them? Please. Please explain it to me, all of it, your entire thought process." Please keep talking and don't leave me, please don't leave me behind.

His fog in his eyes clears for a heartbeat. "The world ... would be destroyed, unrecognisable. What they want..."

"I'll hide it," I vow, my voice thick. "I promise. I won't disappoint you."

He tries to raise his hand to my face but it falls limply at his side. "I know you will."

"Father!" Bennet cries, reaching the top of the stairs. She's out of breath and her eyes and cheeks are red. I wonder how long it took her to calm down, to bring herself out of the panic that traps her breath in a cage and immobilises her body. I should have stayed and helped to calm her. I shouldn't have just run out. But father and his weakness and—

"Bennet," our father rasps with a thin smile. His eyes are almost closed now but he must be able to see us. "My girl. My children. Keep each other safe. Promise me. Don't run after danger. _Promise me_."

"What are you saying?" Benny whispers. Her voice is shaky, her jaw clenched. "Father? Do _not_ talk as if you're dying. We won't let you die. Will we, Bran?"

I can't find words. I'm a second away from my composure cracking in half and tears pouring out of the gap. I have tried so hard to keep him alive but I've failed him.

"Keep each other safe," father repeats, his breathing so faint I struggle to hear it. "No matter where you are. You have a dangerous path in your future. If you separate, one of you will lose something vital."

"What?" Bennet says at the same time I say "What does that mean?"

We both lean towards him, waiting for a response fails to come. It is too late. Our father is gone, along with any hope of understanding the things he told me.

For a moment it feels as if time has stopped its steady, constant procession in sympathy for our father, the steady, constant, love holding the remnants of our family together. He may have been infatuated with his work, he may have been absent, but we always knew he loved us. We always knew he was here. And now he's ...

My composure doesn't simply crack. It shatters like a gunshot through glass. My chest rises and falls so fast I can't separate one breath from the next, my vision a veiled mess of tears.

When Bennet and I were eight years old we lost our mother in a train disaster. A year later our brother of two years died of an unknown illness. And now ...

Will we be next? Will I never wake up one morning? Or will the world be cruel enough to take Benny first, leaving me to suffer the rest of my life without my twin?

It takes eternity for the lump in my throat to shrink, for my eyes to clear, but I'm left with a solid, all-encompassing ache behind my rib cage. When I've stopped crying, it's as if everything in me had stopped too. As if I'm no longer made of sinew and bone but empty air.

Bennet watches me with red, tear-filled eyes. Her face is so pale that I can see the freckles across her nose that are usually disguised by her olive skin. When she crawls to me, I hold her shaking form, and she holds mine, and we both watch the still figure of our father as if expecting him to flutter his eyes and come back to us. But the memory of him pleading with me to bury The Lux is too real, too loud in my thoughts. So is the memory of him imploring me to keep Bennet safe, for her to keep me safe too.

We stay there until night falls outside the single window of the attic, until darkness descends like a cloak over our hunched, huddling bodies, the tables full of elements and metal scraps and glass tubes, and inventions that will never be touched again, never be completed. My father never opens his eyes again.

***

Honour

06:03. 18.09.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

By the time I get back to my room it's three minutes past six. The factory float has already gone rattling down the road, and my sister is sitting bolt upright in bed. Her eyes narrow at me when I slide into the room and I know I'm in for it.

"Have a nice walk?" she asks scathingly.

I wince. "Just down the road."

"You _ever_ do that again and I swear to God I will castrate you, Honour Frie."

"I won't." I don't have to. I know all I needed to—it's possible to get outside the barrier, to follow the instructions left to me. I lower myself onto the mattress.

Horatia looks like she could kill me if she tried. "You went somewhere you shouldn't have, didn't you?" she hisses. "What's wrong with you lately, Honour. You used to be sensible. After everything—" She swallows the reminder of our suffering—homelessness, scavenging for food, almost freezing to death. "You can't keep risking things like this. Just stay inside until it's time to work." She pins me with a scowl. "And come straight home. I don't want anything to happen to you. If it did—" She shakes her head, eyes haunted.

"It won't," I say gently, my heart twisted up with guilt now. "I'm sorry, Tia. I won't go out again."

She nods, glancing through the pathetic covering over the window into the street where people have slowly begun to rise and leave for early work positions. "You'd better not. Honestly, if I didn't know this was just you being a complete idiot, I'd think you were trying to catch one of the strains. Anyone out there could have one. We agreed—straight to work and straight back again. Do you actually _want_ to catch one of the strains?"

"No." I look at my hands, the coarse blanket clenched in my fingers.

_The Sixteen Strains_ is the collective name given to the diseases that are slowly wiping out all signs of life in the Forgotten Lands. According to States, one of the two major Cities of our world—the rest of which is made up of scars and ruins and disease, the paltry remains of the world's population clustered into Forgotten Towns to stay alive—there are even more Strains outside the borders. That's why we live inside the fence: to keep out the spread of even more diseases. Well, that's what I used to believe. Now I'm not sure what I believe.

States is the most powerful City in the world. They're the richest and because of that, because the rest of us are so needy and dying, they control everything. They provide food and protection from their military and make sure production of clothes and purification of water and everything else the world needs to cling to survival keeps running. Without them, we'd have no food, no homes, no clean water, and we'd probably have been wiped out by the strains. I used to think they were benevolent, even if the Officials scared the crap out of me and were too rough and violent with their punishments.

The other City is Bharat; a wealthy place on the other side of the planet that I know next to nothing about. Even though Bharat is bigger and has a higher population, States is the City every Forgotten Town answers to. It's their money that funds our development and provides the 'opportunity' for work. (In a place where not working is punishable by death, opportunity is a laughable word.) It's their doctors that help us when we're in need of care, even if most of the people who go for help are never seen again. It's their people who organise education for kids aged five to thirteen. It's their military that polices our streets and keeps us safe from violence and free from disease. Apparently.

They haven't done a great job of stopping _The Sixteen Strains_ _inside_ the borders from spreading. A hundred people still die each week twenty years after the first outbreak. That's why Horatia is so angry with me. She's scared I'll die before the life expectancy catches up to us at twenty.

She sighs, running a brown hand over her face. Her anger has begun to fade. "Will you be a bit more careful? And have some sense, for God's sake."

I nod, rubbing my eyes. Going out before a full day of work wasn't smart but I hardly have any free time. "I'll try."

"You have twenty minutes before you need to get ready for work. Do you want me to set an alarm?"

I yawn _yeah_ and roll over. Within seconds I'm out for the count.

12:27. 18.09.2024. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

By the time I get home from work that evening, after weaving my way through the quieter back streets and avoiding the shortcuts Officials frequent, Horatia's already left for her late shift.

She works five hours a day, at the factory at the bottom of our road, weaving wool on the looms. It's one of the less dangerous jobs in the factories—one that I begged her to do instead of working at The Allocation Centre like she intended to—but it has one of the highest risk factors because you'll be executed on the spot if any of the supervisors catch you stealing. Wool is a prized luxury; apparently it's popular with the rich people in States' Ordering Body, those who make the big decisions for the rest of us.

Sometimes I end up turning the wool Tia and her co-workers weave into clothes; cardigans and jumpers and socks. None of it is for us of course. God forbid we wear anything that feels nice against our skin. I'm stuck wearing the same old shirts of faded, worn-bare cotton and jeans in a canvas-like material.

Thalia's in the kitchen when I stumble through the back door, the exhaustion catching up to me from my trek last night. I smile as I remember stepping through the fence and onto the open plain that sits beyond our town, just waiting for someone to go out and make it their home. There might be certain death coming for F.L. but it won't take my sister and the rest of my family.

"What're you so happy about?" Thalia asks with narrow eyes.

I laugh and lift a piece of carrot from behind her.

"Hey," she snaps. She attempts to knock the carrot from my hand but it's already in my mouth. Thalia mutters under her breath, a number of inventive suggestions I can do with parts of my body.

"M'having a good day," I say around the carrot.

"Good for you. Maybe you can put your _good day_ to use by tidying the living room—there's paper everywhere. It looks like a solar flare hit."

"I'd rather not." I chew the last of the carrot. Now that I'm paying attention, I notice that Thalia's making a stew. We haven't had stew in a few months since there's been a shortage on vegetables, but judging by the pile of cans in our bin, there's been a delivery to the Allocation Centre. Either that ... or she's found my stash of stolen cans. "Wait, what day is it?"

"Wednesday, why?" She's trying not to smile. So she did steal some of my cans. I cross my arms over my chest, debating the pros and cons of yanking on her pony tail.

"Allocation day's on Friday this week."

She smirks wickedly. "So it is."

"You're gonna regret that," I threaten emptily and slink through the door frame and into the hallway.

I'm not too angry at Thalia for stealing the food I've been saving. I'm more disappointed than anything. I was hoarding that food for when we cross the border and go out into the diseased lands. She used three cans of veg, judging by the rubbish, which means I should still have six unless she's stolen them too. Surely she wouldn't take it all...

I run to the small wall-cupboard in my and Horatia's room and sigh in relief when I find six cans of food still there. That's still enough to sustain us for half a week outside F.L. I should put them somewhere else, though. Thinking of it now, the cupboard was probably a bit obvious.

I move the food to inside a pile of clothes at the bottom of our wardrobe. It doesn't have a door, but unlike Thalia and her husband's it's not leaning at a ninety degree angle with most of our possessions hanging out.

I can smell the stew now as I head to the living room we share, and my stomach grumbles. I'll eat after I tackle the tornado-blown mess that is our carpet. God knows what John—Thalia's elder brother by a year—wants with these papers but they're getting in the way of everything.

I gather them into a messy pile, glancing over a few as I do. They're about _The Sixteen Strains_ , but I can't think why John would want to research this. Everyone knows what caused them and what the symptoms of the diseases are—there are leaflets put in with food allocations and they've been broadcast every night for the past twenty years to anyone who owns a TV or a radio. I hate the guy who does the broadcast; I see him as blonde and slick, with a slimy smile.

The Sixteen Strains _are the catastrophic result of the twelve solar flares that stole our home from us in 2015. Of the tiny portion of our people that remained after the disaster, the Strains took from us half of them. But they didn't stop there, oh no! The Strains are relentless vermin, draining our lives and using it to fuel their own existence—taking our families and loved ones from us, stealing our friends, our neighbours. Well I say enough! The time to take action is now. It is time to take a stand,_ to make a change _._

_If you, your family, or anyone you know have_ any _of the symptoms, contact an aid worker or Official immediately. If you have even an inkling that someone has contracted one of the Strains, contact an aid worker or Official immediately. These people need our help, our care, but the more time_ The Sixteen Strains _have to take our nearest and dearest, the longer they will live. We must stop these diseases now, and reclaim our home._

_We will abolish_ The Sixteen Strains, _or we will die trying._ And good and goodness will prevail.

Symptoms include but are not limited to:

Chills

Rigor (more commonly known as shaking)

Bad cough

Bloodshot eyes

Elevated temperature

High blood pressure

Low blood pressure

High fever

Fatigue

Nausea

Vomiting

Nasal congestion

Difficulty swallowing

Abdominal pain

Photophobia (that's sensitivity to light to us regular folks)

Lockjaw

Eye twitches

Muscle spasms

Rashes

Bleeding eyes

Dizziness

Fainting

Stupor

Delirium

And in extreme cases (that's those with Strain 12):

Hallucinations

I find a few papers about the solar flares mixed in with the Strains info. More crap everyone knows about. I don't know what John was looking for, but if he left the room like this, he must have found it and run off with some brainwave he needed to follow. I don't like it, John running off.

I put the paper in a neater stack and hunt below the cushions of the sofa, behind every piece of furniture we have, and under everything in the room for any more papers, but I think I've found them all. As far as Thalia's concerned, I threw everything out, but I fold the stack of thirty-or-so papers in half and then half again and squash them all in my back pocket.

Something feels off. Why would John just up and leave all this around? It looks like he's spent weeks researching. Paper's not exactly easy to get hold of, and it isn't cheap. Not to mention the hours he must have spent at the library, copying everything from every book he could find. Library hours don't come cheap either; it costs forty credits per hour—more than enough to feed our entire house for a fortnightly allocation. It was important to him, that's pretty obvious, but _why_ it was important I have no idea. But John can be like that, obsessive when he gets an idea in his head.

"Oi. Brat. Get in here."

I assume Thalia means me so I saunter into the kitchen. I look expectantly at her, but she doesn't notice. She's shuffling on the balls of her feet, avoiding my eyes.

"Look, I'm sorry okay?" she forces out. "I know I shouldn't have stolen the food but ... it's been ages since we've had more than half a portion each. I just ... I didn't think. I just took it. I'm sorry."

For a while I just stare at her, stunned. Thalia has never apologised to me for anything in the whole time I've lived here. She slapped me in the face a few years ago for something I didn't do, and what she said after she realised I was innocent was, _well I hope you learned a valuable lesson_.

"Don't worry about it. I was being selfish, keeping all that food from everyone," I eventually get out. I can't tell her. Not yet. When John gets back, when Tia and Wes—Thalia's husband—are home. When we're all together, that's when I'll tell them about the letter, the danger, the way past the fence.

Thalia's remorse doesn't last. "So, you gonna give us the rest of it, then?"

No, I'm keeping it for when we break out into the diseased lands.

"Don't push your luck," I say instead.

She reverts back to smirk mode. "Moved it, then?"

"Yeah." I stare at the chipped row of cupboard. "Thalia, has John been around today?"

She turns away from me and goes back to the stew. I guess her quota of patience for me has run out. "No, why?"

"I just haven't seen him in a few days. Wondered where he'd gone."

"He'll be at work until nine." Her tone turns teasing. "Why, do you miss him?"

I give her the finger.

"I'll tell him you care, Pumpkin."

For a second I just scowl at the back of her head. Then I risk being murdered, dart forward, and yank on her pony tail. I bolt out the kitchen and down the hall, her screeching following, filling up our cramped house.

I prop the half-unhinged bedroom door into place and drop onto my mattress. Three and half hours until Tia is due to back. I might as well catch up on sleep.

As soon as my head hits the pillow, I'm gone.

***

Miya

16:05. 18.09.2040. Forgotten London, Ealing Zone.

There's a young girl twirling on a flat-topped bollard. Her grey dress billows around her. In this moment she reminds me exactly of a butterfly I tried to de-wing when I was a kid, when they weren't extinct. She also reminds me of a life I had before this one. The setting sun makes a crown of her dirty black hair, and I flash back to hugging a ghost of a girl to my chest, promising to always protect her, and then leaving.

As I watch the girl, she looks less like a butterfly to me and more like a ghostly angel, with the dress as her wings, and the sun as her halo. A tight knot of pain forms behind my ribcage. Yosiah looks at me from the corner of his eye, knowing me well enough to see I'm unsettled. I pretend not to feel his eyes on me, his furrow-browed concern.

"Miya—"

"We should try the allocation centre near the edge of the zone," I cut him off. If he voices his worry about me, I'll have to tell him I'm fine. I'll have to lie. After everything we've been through together, lying to Yosiah is my least favourite thing.

"We got food from there three nights ago," he disagrees. "It's too risky."

"Then we'll—"

In slow motion, I see the troop of Officials begin to cross the road and I hear the echo of their boots as if I'm hearing through water. I see the girl, too small, too young, too like that ghost of mine, twirling aimlessly. Not walking to work or school, not trudging home or to one of the few bars in this zone—just twirling, innocent but aimless. Officials hate loitering. I'm gripped by an irrational fear that they'll kill this kid. Officials kill people all the time but not for something like this—rather for arguing, spitting insults at military, skipping work, theft, public brawls, shit that causes an actual disturbance. But logic has abandoned me and fear squeezes my heart in its fist.

"Get down," I cry out. Stupid, drawing attention to myself.

The girl stops dead, turns her eyes to the end of the road where the troop is marching past, paying us little attention while they walk towards whatever dark purpose calls them, and she goes white. I can't switch off my panic. I jump out of the thin alleyway Yosiah and I lean at the mouth of and pull her down, leading her a couple buildings down into the wooden shed in the garden of a half-wrecked house that is home to me and Yosiah. He follows quickly, quietly. He has that calculating look on his face that I know so well.

"Did they see us?" I ask him, trying to pull a full breath into my lungs. I can't see him now; the door blocks out all of the light. The only thing that's real to me is the girl's fluttering pulse under my hand and Yosiah's even breaths.

His hand brushes my shoulder and the frantic sound that was clawing its way up my throat stops midway. I draw a long breath. "No," he says, his voice low, "They were walking straight forward."

"Did I do something wrong?" the girl asks. "I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."

"Be quiet," I say sternly, but I gather her in my arms and hold her tightly to my chest. I don't even know the girl, I tell myself, but my body won't listen to the logic my mind keeps throwing at it.

We each hold our breath, listening for the Officials.

"Why's there so many of them?" I ask once they're just a distant sound.

"A house check maybe," Yosiah offers.

"No." I shake my head, and then realise how stupid that was. We're in pitch blackness, and he can't see a thing, let alone my movements. His hand still rests on my shoulder though, so maybe he felt it. "Routine house checks call for ten, maybe fifteen Officials. That was..."

"Fifty five," Yosiah finishes, "at a rough guess. Maybe sixty."

"Where are they going?" the girl whispers. She sounds scared, helpless, but she lives in this town, on these streets. It could be a mask—pretending to be innocent is a sure way to be underestimated by everyone. A sure advantage for you. I should know; I've used it a few times.

"West." There's a hard edge to Siah's voice. I grasp around and take hold of Yosiah's wrist in the darkness. It's as close to a hug as we get.

"I'm gonna go see where they go."

"What if they catch you?" the girl says instantly.

"They haven't caught me yet," I lie.

I edge closer to the door and at the last minute I drop Yosiah's wrist and let go of the kid.

"Stick to the shadows," Yosiah instructs. "Keep your feet light. And—"

"Keep your mouth shut," I parrot. "You say the same thing every time I go out on my own."

"And I'll keep saying it until you remember it."

I roll my eyes and unlatch the top half of the door. It's one of those old stable doors. I wonder if this was a stable at one time. It doesn't seem big enough to fit the giant horses that the military sometimes ride, but I don't know what life was like whenever this shack was built. It's older than Forgotten London, that's for sure.

I swing the door open to look out and see if anyone's around but the door smacks into something hard in the street. I have just enough time to glimpse the Official—alone, not part of the large group, but just as deadly to us—and the man the door hit as he covers his bloody nose, before he grabs his gun and fires.

I duck back into the shed, my heart racing, energy and alertness flooding through me.

Yosiah reacts immediately, as always. He's level headed as he grabs my arm and steers me back through the shed to a second exit we hammered out when we first set up here. The girl is shaking and close beside me. I take her hand and hold it tightly as Yosiah throws open the back door. We lock eyes, unspoken warning passing between us, and we run.

Outside is almost blindingly orange and on the horizon I can see patches of red and white. There's an old phrase Yosiah says about skies like these. _Red sky at night, sailor's delight_. Or is it shepherds? My thoughts are all fragmented and messed up— _don't get shot. Don't stop running. What are we going to eat tonight? Where are we going to sleep? Don't get shot, don't let Yosiah get shot. Who is this girl and what are we still doing with her? She's not Livy, she's not Livy._

We sprint down a narrow street and pause at the end of it. The girl is finding it hard to keep up. Her little legs can only carry her so far, and pulling her along isn't really helping. By the time her wrist falls out of my grip, she's run in another direction and lost to us. That's gratitude and Forgotten London for you. Or I guess I put her in more danger than she was originally, so she has every right to run off.

My feet hurting through thin soles, the pavement slapping into them, I run as fast as I can across a wide road and into a residential block beyond it, as close to Siah as I can get. It's getting harder to breathe and my side is strained, but I keep pushing on, following my best friend. He starts to tire, his limp becoming more pronounced with the effort of running. I know his leg must be screaming with pain and anger builds—at myself, at the Officials, at the whole damn fucking world.

He takes us behind a block of houses and onto a dirty stretch of pathway between two rows of backyards. When we're far enough away from the roads that no one will see us, we collapse onto the ground. He's breathing hard, his leg stretched out awkwardly before him, his face red and twisted with pain. I want to grab his hand and hold tight but something holds me back.

We sit there for minutes, listening for footfalls, for voices or the crackle of headsets. My breathing eventually settles, leaving a stretched ache across my whole chest to go with the stitch in my side and my throbbing feet. But none of that can even remotely compare to how hurt Yosiah must be, not that you can tell by looking at him—he's the _suffer in silence behind a stony mask_ type.

"Shepherd's Bush Zone," he says, running a hand over his mouth. His long, dark hair is stuck to his face with sweat.

A couple of young kids chase each other down the path, playing tag or catch, or some other kind of game. I glare at them until they move away.

"What?" I'm too tired to think right now. I spent most of the day working the bar in a club at the far end of Ealing—ninety nine percent of the profits of which go straight to States, the only reason they let the pubs stay open—under the name of Stacey Miller, and now the run has taken everything I had left of my energy. I just want to sit here for as long as I can and then find somewhere to steal some food and a place we can sleep for the night.

"That's where the Officials were going. I heard one of them say it." He frowns for a moment. "They were all heading towards Shepherd's Bush."

"So?" I yawn, tipping my head back against the wall we're sat against.

"That's where Honour and his sister live."

I sigh. "Again—so?"

"So he's my friend. And he's yours too. You like the guy, don't deny it. He makes you laugh."

"Yeah, whatever. You don't know the Officials were going to their zone, though."

He sighs, looking at me.

"But you're not gonna let it pass," I say knowingly.

"If something happens to them and I could have helped—"

"You'll never forgive yourself. Yeah, I get it. You're being paranoid and overreacting. But fine, be careful, alright?"

"Aren't I always?" he jokes, laughing. His teeth are white against his sand-coloured skin and his chapped lips. They're redder than usual; the result of him biting them in agitation.

"No." My voice is hard. I almost lost him once, and it was bad enough for me to want to shadow him now as he goes to check on Honour, but now _I'm_ being paranoid and overreacting. I don't need to protect Siah, I don't want to follow him every single place he goes like a lost kid. I'm perfectly fine without him and he'll be fine without me. But as he brushes my arm, about to stand, I catch his wrist. "I mean it," I say. "Be careful, Yosiah, or I'll never forgive you."

He squeezes my hand, his brown eyes solemn, a promise in their dark depths. "I'll be careful if you will. Go to the library we saw the other week. Stay hidden until I get back."

His concern makes me feel self-conscious, and then annoyed at feeling self-conscious. "I don't need to you worry about me," I snap.

"I'm not worried about you." His smile is a flash of teeth. "I'm worried about me. I wouldn't last two seconds in this town without my bodyguard."

I snort, and all my disgruntled edges soften even as I recognise what he's doing. He has a hundred different ways to disarm me—this is only one of them. "Go." I point him down the road.

His grin softens, his eyes too. He squeezes my hand one last time and pushes to his feet.

***

Honour

16:02. 18.09.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

I'm startled awake by someone hammering on the front door. Military Officials. I know it the minute I hear the sound. My thoughts go straight to Tia. She's not due home from work for another hour but anything could have happened.

I throw myself up and rush to the door just in time to see Thalia open it.

The Official wears an overly fake look of remorse. Horatia's dead, I know it. My world spins for a split second before the Official asks if there's a Thalia Norton here. They notify next of kin; they'd be asking for _me_ if something had happened to my sister.

My breath floods out of me in relief. Horatia is safe.

Thalia tells him that's her and the Official in charge gives her a scrutinising look. I don't know what he's searching her for but he mustn't find it because in the next second disappointment chases through his eyes, maybe frustration too.

"I'm sorry to inform you that your brother, John Norton, is deceased as of today, fourteen-oh-nine. Cause of death, toxic poisoning."

Thalia scratches the wall for balance and I think about reaching out to stabilise her but then the dread of the Official's words hit me. "What?" I breathe, shaking my head.

John's dead.

It takes a minute for that to sink in before my brain starts connecting the coincidences. Distant, keeping emotion away for as long as possible, because if I let it in I'm going to crumple.

Yesterday John found something in his research—that's pretty obvious obvious in the array of abandoned papers in our living room. I know it was something about the Strains, or the solar flare disaster, but that's _all_ I know. Nobody saw him today; did he never come back from wherever he disappeared to yesterday afternoon? My eyes are burning, my throat tight; I fight it. An Official is at our door, Thalia is struggling to stay composed, and he's watching all of it.

But this is too sudden, too ... neat. John worked in the pharmaceutical department at the hospital so he really could have inhaled or ingested something toxic—but he'd done that job all his life. He'd never make that kind of mistake.

Would he?

What the hell was with the papers, the hours he must have invested in the library, the credits thrown away that we could have used on food? I want to punch my fist through the wall but I don't know who I'm angry at. Him or them.

The Official tells us the other details of John's death, an accident, a spilling of some noxious chemical. But they don't know John. He was a perfectionist. He took pride is his work and was obsessive about details. There's no chance he could have made a mistake. He checks the ingredients on the soap label twice to make sure it's safe before we use it, for God's sake. There's no way he did what they say he did. No way. But does that mean they're lying.

Thalia speaks through a muffled sob, asking what happens now.

My hysterical, paranoid mind gives me four possibilities.

John committed suicide—a shameful act in a world where the average life expectancy is twenty and not a single person has lived past twenty three in the last fourteen years.

Or he was caught breaking a rule and, since he was a respected member of both the community and the physician's circle, they're making his death nobler than being shot in the head. They'll say he was so dedicated to his work that, in the end, it just got the better of him. He could have broken a rule. He could have. But is the rest of this thought just hope? Would the military who rule over us really respect my adopted brother enough to do this?

No.

Then maybe he caught a Strain. He was gone less than twenty four hours, but Strain Twelve can kill someone in less than six hours. It's extremely rare, but it has been known to happen. But why lie about it?

Which brings me to my most extreme and jumpiest of thoughts: the military killed him.

I stumble out of my thoughts long enough to hear that there'll be a closed-coffin burial next week, which is weird. Another red flag. Civilian deaths are given a run-of-the-mill mass grave burial. This only encourages my thoughts. They're keeping something secret, shut up. ?

I shouldn't want to question John's death. I should want to leave it alone because what's done is done, but there's a throbbing ache in the front of my head telling me that I need to know what happened to him. And, Thalia should know the real cause of her brother's death. She deserves to know how and what he died for, not this made up toxic substance crap. He might be my brother, by circumstance and having lived together for years, but he's Thalia's biological brother and she's known him all her life. I know they struggled, as kids, like me and Tia, and I know it made them closer like it did for us too.

When the Official leaves, Thalia just shuts the door and leans against it. She doesn't say a word for five minutes and I stand there, awkward and unknowing what to say.

"They wrong," she says, startling me. I thought she'd believe what they told her. "They're wrong," she repeats. "That would never happen. Never."

"It could have been an accident." But I'm trying to convince myself more than her.

"When did John ever have accidents?" She chokes on a laugh, her cheeks splotchy. " _When?_ "

"I don't—"

_"Exactly._ You don't know. Because he didn't make mistakes. They've made it up. I don't know why but they've made it up."

"Thalia ... maybe you ... shouldn't say that so loud." It's one thing to think it but another altogether to say it. My heart jumps into my throat—if the Official is still hovering outside ... the door is really thin wood. But he'll have gone by now, off to deliver more crushing news. When I peer through the letter box, the path outside is empty.

"Yeah, well, you know what? I really don't care. My brother's dead so I'm allowed to say whatever the hell I want."

I drop my eyes to the sparse carpet in the hall. "I'm sorry," I say. "I'm sorry he's dead."

She's quiet for a while before she whispers, _thanks_ , and goes down the hallway.

I stand there, my body slack and heart empty, and slowly it dawns on me that there's no way we can leave Forgotten London now. I can't tell Thalia about that I went beyond the border or my plans for us all to leave the town. I can't take my family away when it's broken. I'd never ask Thalia to pack up everything and leave the only place that she has a chance of feeling connected to her brother. I can't ask that of Horaita either, she loved John as much as Thalia did. And there's definitely no way I can tell them why we need to leave, not now. This shock, this grief, is going to be bad enough without me adding to it.

But we can't stay, not forever, not for long.

I rest my back against the wall and slide down it, onto my knees. I'm pressed in on both sides by the need to save my family and the overwhelming presence of death. John's gone—my brother, the only brother I've ever known. Gradually, I become aware of the numbness sweeping through me.

***

Yosiah

17:20. 18.09.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

I've followed the Officials all the way through Shepherd's Bush, and now it's obvious they're marching towards Hammersmith. I hope I'm wrong. I hope they're just cutting through and going to Fulham Zone, or one of the zones over the river; Richmond, Wimbledon, or Clapham. They could even turn suddenly and head into Kensington Zone, but I doubt it. They'd have changed direction already. We're less than five minutes away from Hammersmith. They'll be going to Fulham Zone, I say to myself, just cutting through. It makes sense; it's directly below Hammersmith and there's always some minor crime taking place there because it's the smallest zone and the people are packed together like sardines in a tin.

Smaller crime doesn't justify this large number of Officials, though. I wish there was a way to rationalise it.

I'm worried about Miya. I know she can take care of herself but she's vulnerable under her fire and venom and I don't like to think of her alone on the streets. My place is with her, where I can protect her and she can protect me. Where she can always draw me out of this heavy melancholy.

I pray to a forgotten God that she'll be alright. If she's not I don't know what I'll do.

Ever since I've been out on my own, since my family left me on a street corner because they couldn't cope with me, since Miya and I found each other one night when we were both running for our lives, since she healed and cured me from a minor Strain—not that the Officials want people to know you can recover from one—ever since we became friends, I've never had to learn how to live without her.

And I never want to.

When the Officials go right past Hammersmith's centre street, I start to think they're definitely going into Fulham Zone. But then we hit the river, turn right, and walk alongside it. There's no mistaking now that the feeling that told me Honour was in trouble was right. I've sensed things before—impending violence, Officials around the corner, a gang trying to break into our shed—but nothing like this. This is pure instinct. And so far my instincts haven't been wrong.

They're not wrong now, because sure enough, the troop of military Officials turn up Honour's road. My gut churns and I swallow, nervous not only to be so close to this many Officials but dreading what might happen now, to Honour.

I stay back and slip into the alley that runs along the backside of the houses. I can't go marching into Honour's house and tell him that I think the military are coming for him. He'd think I was mad if I explained why. And it'd just make him look nervous and suspicious to the Officials.

Anyway, I tell myself with stupid hope, there's still a chance that they're going to another house.

I crouch behind a low wall and watch through a gap in the bricks as the Officials stop three houses away. I'm confused, watching them, before something clicks. They're going to try and pass off whatever this is as a routine house check. Stupid. This is so far from routine and the military procedure I learned in training that it's ridiculous. It stands out a mile that this isn't normal. If it was routine, there'd be fifteen Officials, they'd start at the house at the end of the road and work their way up.

I sit by the wall until they finish doing the checks on the other houses, then I inch forward and crouch under the kitchen window so that I can hear what goes on inside. A knock like thunder on Honour's front door. Several male voices, then a woman talking, high pitched and wavering confused. Horatia? Thalia?

I flinch, startled at the sound of breaking glass. I want to jump into action, defend Honour, several years of muscle memory itching for me to fight, but I'd only make things worse.

I crouch there, tense, and listen to the sound of a home being destroyed.

***

Honour

17:27. 18.09.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

There are Officials on our road. A whole troop of them in their sleek black uniforms and matching sleek hairstyles. Judging by the length of time they spend in each house leading up to our, it's a house check. Or that's what they'll say. I'd put any sum of money on them leaving the road unchecked after they've done our house.

Time blurs, moving faster than normal, and then for the second time today there's military hammering down our door. This time, it's not just one guy. This time there's so many they spill down the path and down the road. This time I answer it, and Thalia stays hidden in her bedroom.

I open the door and my breath gets stuck in my throat. I freeze. It's different seeing them out of a window than seeing them amassed in front of me. I'd never be able to work my way out of a group this big. I'd be dead for sure if I put even a toe out of line. Horatia would be dead, and Thalia and her husband Wes, and the two families that live on the upper floor, their stairs walled off inside to separate the two floors. Or maybe they'd be lucky, spared.

The Official closest to me looks amused, his eyes a sparkling blue. He must have seen my distress. And he thinks it's funny. _Asshole._ "Routine house check," he announces in an airy tone, and then he barges his way into my house and begins to shout, "Routine house check, everyone out front."

This is screwed up.

We've never had to leave the house before—we usually hover in the hallway while they bang about, looking for illegal stuff and searching us discreetly for signs of the Strains—but an Official grips my bicep hard and pulls me into the middle of the road. I stand there, my arms crossed over my chest, trying not to stare at the black-clad figures around me, trying not to look suspicious. I glue my eyes to our door, watching for my sister, wanting to run inside and protect her. But again, I need to not look suspicious. A kid running is enough cause for Officials to pull them aside, let alone a black kid.

Tia joins me a minute later, in a pair of loose cotton trousers and a holey cardigan that she'd never be seen dead out in. We may have a laughable amount of money but Horatia makes an effort to look well put together when she leaves the house. I think it's her way of showing people she doesn't care what they think. The more they sneer or throw wary glances, the higher she stands just to defy them.

Thalia's out next, tear stained and slumped, her dark head bowed, followed by Wes who looks bigger and more uncomfortable than normal—and he usually looks big and uncomfortable. He crosses his eyes over his chest, clearly pissed off, but scared enough to not look any military in the eye. He tries to tuck Thalia under his arm but an Official moves them apart with cruel hands. The Officials are giving Thalia a wide berth for some reason.

With us secured in the middle of a swarm of Officials, thirty of them crash into our home and turn it upside down. The sound of them destroying our stuff is loud in the silent street. I hold my breath, and I swear the rest of the world does. None of our neighbours come past their front doors to see what's happening, but I see curtains shifting and I know we're being watched.

I want to grab Horatia's hand and bring her close but don't attempt it—they won't let me, if they won't let Wes and Thalia hold each other. But Tia stays close to me, her body stiff and her jaw clenched. She's been home for barely twenty minutes, had to deal with the news that John is dead, and has now been turfed out of her home while it's being trashed. I watch it wear on her, watch her fight tears.

A house check should take fifteen minutes at the most. This one takes more than double that. They're looking for something. Something of John's? I remember the papers all over the living room, still in my back pocket, and feel like a light just fixed on me, showing the Officials what I have. I make my hands unclench, my shoulders relax; it's not easy.

It's too big a coincidence, isn't it, that they tell us John has died and search our house on the same day. They're connected, this to his murder.

Murder—because now I'm sure. It wasn't the Strains that took him, and he didn't commit suicide, or have a damn chemical accident. The military killed him because he knew something or did something or broke a rule. My chest burns with anger but also a bit of gratitude—to myself for pocketing John's papers, to Thalia for making me clear the living room. If she hadn't, the Officials would have found everything. Maybe we'd even be incriminated for whatever John's crime was; guilty by association. Whatever John's crime was.

What the hell is in these notes?

Minutes pass, and the Official in charge comes back into the street and shakes his head at a man I take to be his second in command. He tells the four of us—me, Tia, Wes, and Thalia—to stand in a line. I shuffle into place, my gut roiling. From a large plastic box, the man with slimy hair and a slimier expression removes four clear wallets with a load of unfamiliar objects inside. Fear grips my chest, squeezes tight.

He says, "You may be aware that _The Forgotten London Census_ is in the process of updating their records." This is a lie. The census is only updated when someone dies or is born. "An aid worker will take a record of your fingerprints and a blood sample, and then you're free to return to your home. Thank you for your cooperation."

Only when I'm looking do I see that scattered amongst the soldiers who enforce laws and deal with criminals are seven aid workers, not as muscular or as mean as the rest. They're dressed in black, like the military, but their coats drop to the knee instead of mid-thigh, and the lapels are different. Their hats are practically the same except the States flag embroidered on the side has a white cross emblem in the corner instead of stars. The Officials scare me, but the aid workers send a pure bolt of terror chasing through my veins as they come near.

One approaches me, and three others step up to Tia, Wes, and Thalia. I fight for breath, my vision wavering for a second. The woman in front of me, blond hair poking from beneath her hat and a flat expression on her face, takes a clear wallet—which I now notice has a personal label on with my name, I.D. photo, citizen number, address, and risk factor on. My risk factor is 48%. I'm about fifty percent at risk of catching one of the Strains, not bad for my age. A few years ago it was sixty percent; I'm not quite sure why it went down when it usually goes up the older you get, but I'm hardly complaining. People with lower risk factors live longer.

The aid worker takes my left index finger, her cold hand a shock, and pushes it onto an ink pad and then onto a miniature book of paper. She does the same with my right thumb, and then I'm required to write my signature on a separate page, my name in lowercase on another, and the finally my name in full capitals. I feel sick. The census is really going to town on this. If they're not careful it might become obvious that they're collecting evidence for a trial.

Not that anyone gets trials in this town—we just get executed. So why all the fingerprints?

After the prints and the handwriting, the aid worker pricks my left middle finger with a needle and then covers the head of a cotton bud in my blood. I'm genuinely surprised they don't ask to swab the inside of my cheek. Maybe that would make what they're doing a bit too obvious. Or maybe I shouldn't read—and reread—the crime novels I stole from a library when I was a kid.

The aid worker puts everything back in the wallet, even the needle which I suppose will come in handy if they somehow manage to contaminate my blood sample, and then gives me a tissue for my bleeding finger.

When the woman moves away, I breathe a bit easier. The tightness in my chest doesn't ease, but it does let up. I look outside my bubble of fear to my sister; she meets my eyes, hers filled with apprehension and something sharper, as the aid worker finishes taking her samples.

When it's done, and the aid workers move back to their places in the troop of Officials enclosed around us, the guy in charge tells us we can return to our house. I reach for Horatia's hand, and she grips mine as tightly as I do hers.

The curtains in the houses around us flutter as everyone realises that the entertainment's over. The military get back into formation when we scuttle out of the way and they march away. By this point all our neighbours know that we, and only we, have just been investigated.

I meet Wes's eyes, see my own suspicion and fear there. Thalia lets out a soft swear word and trudges back to our house. Even from a few feet away I can see her hands shaking.

"What will I say at work?" Tia sighs as we get back to the destruction that was our room. She runs a hand over her face, down her braid. She looked as tired as I feel on the inside—like I could fall asleep and my body, used up and with nothing left, could just shut down overnight.

I sink onto the bed, dropping my head into my hands. At least the mattress is where we left it, and the curtains still in place. "Tell them John died of the Strains, and we were searched for disease and cleared. Everyone saw the Officials just leave. If any of us had one of the Strains, they'd have taken us into custody."

"Don't say it like that," she scolds, kicking aside a fragment of our wardrobe. "They don't take us into custody. It's not like being arrested. They take us to the hospital so we're comfortable before we die."

A muscle in my jaw twitches. "They take us to the labs where they can study us before we're put down."

Her eyes flash but her voice has none of that fire. "You don't know that."

My laugh tears up my throat. I feel like I've been screaming for hours. "It doesn't take a genius to work it out, Horatia."

She opens her mouth to say something and then snaps it shut. Instead she directs her gaze to the doorway.

"Sorry to interrupt your argument," Thalia says, and she really does look sorry. Wow, two apologies from her in such a short space of time. She's really changing her life around. "I need to tell you something."

"What is it?" Tia asks. She's gone stock still. No good conversation begins with _I need to tell you something_.

"My risk factor's gone up," Thalia states, her voice flat. Wes appears in the doorway and winds an arm around her waist, leaves a kiss in her hair. Thalia relaxes, the tiniest amount, but when she speaks again, her voice breaks. "It's gone up a lot."

I scrape my hands over my skull, my world cracking apart again. The third time today. I don't know if I can take anymore. "How much?" I ask, my voice raw.

"When I saw it last month, it was fifty eight."

I can't look at her; I'll shatter. "And now?"

"Ninety three."

Tia inhales sharply. Wes holds Thalia tighter, his face buried in her hair.

I just stare at Thalia until my mouth remembers how to work. "That can't be right. That's ... it's wrong. Printer error or something. I've known a risk factor to go up ten percent before but not _that_ much. It's gotta be—it's just wrong." I sound desperate, but I don't care. It has to be an error.

"I asked the aid worker." Thalia's voice is quiet, weak, so far from her usual barking and ordering and sniping. That's what really drives the truth into me—her reaction. That, and knowing Wes. If he believes is, believes the woman he's completely devoted to, is dying, and has accepted it ... I mash my lips together, pushing back all my arguments.

"There's no mistake." Thalia gives us a thin smile. "I just wanted to say goodbye. I'll probably be gone by the end of the week so make the most of my good cooking while you can." The joke falls horrifically flat. Wes makes a choked sound.

Tia looks crushed, her expression completely clear and empty in that scary way it always is when she's cut up inside.

"What if they're lying?" I blurt before I can think.

"Honour," Tia sighs. "Drop it."

"What if they are?" Wes's voice holds nothing but defeat. "What can we do to prove it, or change it, or stop it? If they've decided the risk factor, then it stays. Your sister's right—just leave it alone."

But the crushing feeling in my chest won't let me leave it alone. "But the risk factor doesn't mean you're gonna get anything."

Thalia's already made up her mind. She's resigned to her death; I can see it in her eyes. "But I'm more likely to catch it, Honour." Her voice is disturbing soft, disturbingly fond. Of me. Who she bosses around and argues with on a daily basis. "There's only a seven percent chance I won't."

"There's still a chance," I insist.

"Stop it," Tia snaps, "You're making it harder for all of us."

I clench my jaw, more because it keeps the tears back and less because I'm angry. Though I am angry. I don't want to let it go, I don't want to accept this. I can't—John and now Thalia? This isn't real.

It's not happening.

***

Yosiah

18:41. 18.09.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

I wait until the Officials have marched down the road before I knock on the back door of Honour's house. This door seems to be the only thing they didn't destroy. It opens slowly and Honour's face comes into view. He looks worn out. His skin is sallow and his eyes are rimmed in darkness. His blinks at the sight of me.

"What—" he begins.

"Are you alright? After that..."

When the door is shut behind us, Honour sighs. "How did you hear?"

"I saw them go through our sector and I followed them. One of them mentioned your zone."

"They came from Ealing?"

I shake my head and glance up as Horatia walks into the room and stands beside her brother. She offers me a strained smile. "They marched through Ealing and came straight for Shepherd's Bush Zone. I don't know how but ... my instincts told me that it involved you. Or maybe it was paranoia."

"I don't get it." I freeze, expecting him to press me about how I sensed it but he adds, "Why bring that many just for us?"

Horatia glances at me quickly. I keep my attention on her brother. "I think they came from Watford," I say. "From the Street Official headquarters there."

"That's insane." Honour gasps a laugh. "Why would they send Officials from HQ? I thought they only sent big groups out when there was an outbreak or a riot."

I rub a graze on the side of my hand. "I thought there was. I thought you..."

"No," Honour says quickly. "No, we're fine. You shouldn't have come here if you thought we had a Strain. You could have caught it—"

"I wasn't really thinking," I say. "And there's no harm done anyway. What about John and the rest?"

Honour looks to his sister, his face shuttering.

"Thalia and Wes are fine," she tells us. "They're putting the living room back together."

She's holding something back but I let her have it; I know Horatia, and she only keeps secrets for good reasons/ "Do you need any help?"

Honour smiles slightly. "You're a weird one, Yosiah. You want to help?"

I nod, feeling awkward now. "Yeah, with the house, your rooms. I heard a lot of noise, and I can see that they've trashed everything in here. They did the same to the other rooms, didn't they?"

"Yosiah," Horatia says, her voice different. I look at her, expecting the worst, and it says a lot about me that, "John's dead," isn't the worst.

"Oh," I breathe, remembering nights spent in this kitchen, sat around the table drinking cheap—and slightly illegal—beer, listening to John tell one of his legendary stories. That man could talk for hours. And now he's gone. I lean back against the kitchen counter, struggling to process the fact I won't see him again.

"I should go see what's left of our things." Horatia says in a soft voice, shuffling out of the room. I realise now it wasn't a secret she was hiding from me, but something she didn't want to face herself.

"They've broken pretty much everything we had," Honour says, bereft as he looks around the kitchen. There are pans and smashed plates littering the floor, drawers and cupboards emptied, boxes upturned, cutlery bent out of shape, stores of food dirtied and cans hammered into a crumpled shape. It looks like a flare hit, but none of us would be alive it if had—the flares were what wiped out most of humanity, before disease decimated what was left. A Strain will get all of us eventually, inside the fence. It's like we're in a siege against them.

Honour interrupts my thinking, stops my thoughts returning to John, who'll never laugh again or smile that crooked grin that never failed to coax one from me, no matter how exhausted I was. "So, were you serious?" he asks, watching me.

"About what?"

"Helping us fix this mess."

"Oh, yeah, of course. I came here to help, however you needed it." And if I'd have sensed the situation was going to turn deadly, that the military were gonna kill Honour and his family, I'd have helped in a more violent way. There are places you can run in this town that even Officials can't find you—Honour's family could have come with me and Miya.

Honour looks at me strangely; I can't tell what he's thinking. He quickly covers his expression. "You can help me sort out my room."

From what I can see of the house, Honour's housemates suffered the worst of the wreckage. With just a glimpse through a bedroom door I saw splinters of wood, bed linens ripped to shreds, knife marks in the walls, wallpaper hanging in ribbons on the floor, and an antique-looking glass lamp lying in shards on the worn floorboards. Compared to that, Honour's room is just untidy.

The mattress is off kilter, the door hangs off a wall cupboard, and a wardrobe is upturned but looks intact. Their possessions are thrown around the room, but nothing looks to have been intentionally broken like in the other room. The forever-calculating side of me wonders if the other room was the one they properly searched, and this room was just overturned to avoid suspicion.

"What were they searching for?" I ask, eyeing the small room.

Honour's eyes betray a moment of fear before he recovers. He pushes the door until it clicks shut.

"This," he says. He puts something in my hand but it's just a collection of handwritten notes on _The Sixteen Strains_. I wonder if I'm missing something, if there's something important written here. All I can see, as I flick through, are facts I already know.

"I don't understand."

He sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. "I thought I was missing something, but you can't see it either?"

I fold the papers up and give them back. "Are you sure this was what they were looking for?"

Honour sinks onto the end of the mattress, the weight of the world on him. I sit next to him, pressing my hands together.

"No. I'm not sure of anything; how can I be? But this is weird, John writing this and leaving it behind, and what else could they have been looking for?"

"I don't—"

"He just left it here, all over the front room, and the next thing I know, he's dead." He drops his head into his hands, fingers digging into his skull. "I wish I could ask him what this is meant to mean. What the hell he was thinking."

I chew my lip, keeping back the apology that won't make him feel better. "Is there anything I can do?"

A laugh erupts from his lips, bitten off after a second. "Make the Officials leave us alone?"

"I don't have that kind of influence."

"Yeah." Honour is quiet for a moment, giving me time to process the last few minutes.

Hesitantly, I ask, "Do you think this house search is connected to John's ... death?" There's no way to soften this.

"I don't know. I really don't." He lifts his head, his eyes intense and wild. "I think they killed him. The military. I'm sure they did."

I bite my lips again then make myself stop. "They kill people all the time—I wouldn't be surprised if they'd done this."

Honour makes a sound of agreement. "Do you think this is all grief? It's meant to mess with your head, right?"

"Yeah," I say, quiet. "Yeah, it does." I can't stay on this topic for longer than a heartbeat or my whole chest will cave in. "If the Officials were looking for those papers, they didn't find them. That's good."

He shrugs. "I have this shitty feeling they're never gonna stop looking for it. I don't want the Officials anywhere near here again. I don't want my sister to get hurt. Thalia's already—"

"Honour?"

"It's fine. It's just fucked up. It's fine."

I lay my hand briefly on his shoulder but don't say anything. I can tell he doesn't want consoling anyway. "If you ever need somewhere to stay, or someone to rely on, find me. I'll help you with whatever you need."

Honour looks at me the same way he did in the kitchen. Unreadable. "Why?" His voice is enveloped in confusion.

"You're my friend." I just hold back from saying, so is Horatia. "I wouldn't want you being unsafe."

"You're a good friend," he says, looking at me steadily, his brown eyes serious. "I can never tell if people are being fake or genuine but with you, everything's out in the open. There's nothing hidden with you, no secrets or lies or anything."

I choke back a laugh. If he knew everything, he'd probably hate me for keeping it from him. "Yeah," I say instead. Guilt burns in my gut.

***

Honour

20:18. 18.09.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

Tonight I skip work for the first time ever.

I'll get a strike against my name but it'll show on the records that there's been bereavement in my household, and it'll be an assumed Grievance Day. Because everyone shares a house from a young age, and blood relatives are rare, people who live together are considered family. It's not unusual for people to miss a day of work because of the loss of a family member. The Officials will be lenient with one day, at least. If I miss two, they'll drag me out of the house and to the factory.

I head north through Shepherd's Bush to Wembley Zone.

It's weird to see all the deserted Underground stations. Their signs are chipped and worn and there are metal grates pulled across their entrances to keep out trespassers, but otherwise they're in perfect condition. That's the strangest thing about them: how undamaged the stations are compared to the wilted, crumbling buildings around them.

I used to think the stations had been rebuilt—the brick looks newer and cleaner than the other buildings—but Horatia pointed out that it'd be stupid for States to rebuild these pointless stations when there's no transport anymore. Besides, the military refused to even repair the police stations, the fire service buildings, and the hospitals, so there's no way they'd make repairs on a building like the one I trudge past now. I was so convinced, though.

Looking at them now I think about how stupid I was to think that. States would never give us the funding for that, not unless there was anything in it for them.

There are six Undergrounds along this route, all abandoned and empty. People have tried in the past to get into them, but that usually resulted in a bullet in the back of their head. The Officials don't tolerate trespassing.

Heading through the zone's centre—Shepherd's Bush itself—is tricky. The number of military doubles compared to the residential streets, so I need to be extra careful that I don't catch anyone's attention. I'm not breaking the law, technically, but I am breaking a rule by skipping work.

But the Officials aren't the worst thing about Shepherd's Bush. That title goes to the people. Hammersmith where I live isn't the nicest of areas, and it's hardly spacious, but Shepherd's Bush is a thousand times worse. The streets are always packed, and with the poorest people. Unwashed, staggering, prone to aggression.

In the five minutes it takes me to navigate the area, I come across three girls ranging between fourteen and seventeen years old, all struggling through the streets with children attached to their legs. One of them, the youngest, collapses against a wall with a baby in her arms and bursts into tears. Nobody stops to help her or ask if she's okay. Some people even step on her legs, but I make sure I walk around her. My heart tugs me back, urging me to help her, but I can't help her—it's not like I can take her kid and look after it. And that'd only make me stand out, when I don't need to be drawing military attention.

Kids are left on the streets alone all the time, their parents too young and too poor to cope. I can't find it in myself to be angry at those parents, not when most are younger than me, not when I don't know what happened for them to end up pregnant. Birth control isn't exactly widely available here and condoms are expensive as hell—and those are just for pregnancies that come from consensual sex. In a place like this, in a town like this, rape is far from uncommon. No Official would step in to save a victim, either. It's probably the only crime in the town that goes unpunished.

The more I walk, edging along the streets, the more I want to kick something. Every time I think about this, I put my sister in their place. It makes me sick. But tonight the streets are free of abandoned children, and the faster I walk, the faster my anger burns off.

In the centre of the road, full of pedestrians instead of the old traffic, a man is clutching his stomach and coughing up blood—an obvious Strains victim—and people press closer to the pavements to get away from him. I almost trip over a mountain of rubbish bags, stretching to see what happens to the man. I wish I hadn't. Officials waste no time in surrounding him, all in masks to protect themselves. They execute him with an unnecessary amount of bullets.

One of the bullets ricochets off a building and strikes a girl in the head. She must be younger than me. Another shatters a window. Someone else swears in pain but it doesn't sound fatal. For the thousandth time in my life, I escape death. If the military had been using the other guns, the ones that whirr and charge up with blue fire, electricity, I might not have escaped getting shot. An indirect hit from one of those would sear my skin. A direct hit would burn me to ash from the inside out.

A kid starts crying, whether at the sight of the crumpled, bloodied man, the dead girl, or because of the noise, I don't know.

The crowd moves faster. I got caught in the middle of a shift change, I realise, for there to be this many people on the streets. I should have timed it better.

I try to push further forward but the crush holds me back. I endure the putrid smell of the centre, the hum of nervous voices, the press of stranger's against my, until a side street appears and I stumble into it. I almost fall over a girl laid out on the ground, a sleeping bag and cardboard disguising her legs, and she barks an insult at me that I ignore as I trudge on.

From there on, the way is blessedly quieter. There are people around, of course. There are always people no matter what time of day or night it is, but there are less of them here, and they don't pay any attention to another teenage boy walking home from work. I suppose that's the good thing about the different shifts finishing at all hours of the day—nobody can suspect you for walking from place to place.

Tonight I take a shortcut since I only have four hours of my 'shift'. Normally, I'd only come here in the morning when I have more time, but this is an emergency. I cut through the centre of Harlesden Zone, or as most people call it: Harlequin Zone. It's aptly named after the personalities that wander its streets. Harlequin is the only zone that still has an actual entertainment club. Every Friday, _The Harlequin's Den_ opens its doors to the weird and wonderful alike. Everyone in F.L. over a certain age has been there once. It's a rite of passage. I went there last year, when Tia begged me to go with her after hearing about it at work. She saved every big of spare money to pay for our entry, which should have been impossible, but Tia is a miraculous budgeter. In the club, I saw enough fake feathers, ruffled cotton skirts, and breasts to last me a good few years. Horatia begged me to go again, but I refused. It's much too casual a thing to exist in this world.

By the time I cut through Scrubs Park, a pathetic stretch of land with dead yellow grass, thirty five minutes have passed and I'm out of breath. I collapse under a leafless tree for three minutes, counting every second, and then walk even faster. I get to Stonebridge in another twenty minutes and then run the last part of the way until I'm leaning against a faded wooden door.

I almost fall over when it opens. I didn't even knock.

"Do you want to come in?" a young woman with a soft voice and red-gold hair asks, her eyes filled with curiosity and love. Hele. "Or were you planning to stay out here all night?"

I stumble through the door, exhausted, and fall onto the most comfortable thing I've touched in weeks—an actual armchair, with stuffing and an intact cover. God, I love this house.

"Dal!" Hele shouts from the bottom of a staircase, tapping her fingers absently against the striped wallpaper. From upstairs, I hear scrambling about.

Hele disappears into the kitchen, reappearing two minutes later with three mugs—one of hot chocolate, one coffee, and one tea. She sets the chocolate down in front of me with a smile.

"Is that tea?" I ask breathlessly.

Laughing, she sits cross legged on the carpeted floor. "The less you know the better," she says cryptically. Her eyes assess my dishevelled state and her lips turn down. "Did you run here?"

"I ran the last length. I've gotta get back by half one."

She nods thoughtfully. Every inch of her skin is covered in freckles the colour of fallen leaves. "How long did it take you?"

"An hour and fifteen."

"Not your best. Remember that time you got here in fifty minutes? You could barely stand up."

A new voice dryly adds, "I had to tell your sister that you'd gotten yourself in a drunken stupor and wouldn't be going home that night."

I turn my head and find Dalmar leaning against the staircase bannister, golden haired and tanned, his face deceptively young; he might be just twenty one but he has a tired and serious soul that I've never known anyone to have. I imagine when people used to live to twice or three times his age, they'd have the same serious eyes.

"So what do you need?" he asks, watching me. "Not that I'm not happy to see you, but you only ever come when you want something."

"That's not true."

He raises an eyebrow. "So this is a social call?"

"Not exactly." I scratch the back of my neck.

Dalmar shakes his head, half smiling. He crosses the room slowly, like a cat prowling at night, and sinks onto the floor beside Hele. His turquoise eyes fix on me, waiting, and he absently twirls a stand of Hele's auburn hair around his fingers.

"I need you to find something out for me," I say slowly.

"Something secret, by any chance?"

"I'm not sure."

"But you have a hunch?" Hele leans forward. "Your hunches always turn out to be right."

I frown. "They do?"

She nods encouragingly. I'm not sure what I need encouraging for. Her eyes are full of pity though, so I guess I must look a mess. I know my forehead's shining with sweat from the walk even though I already wiped it on my jacket. My fingers are also trembling, the cup shaking in my hand. I'm not sure if it's from the anger I picked up in the town centre or from this whole day.

"What happened?" Dalmar asks. Normally he reminds me of a merman from one of the books I read, all elegant beauty and charisma, but tonight he's edgy and anxious.

I stare at him. "Do you know? Do you know that something's wrong?"

"I heard there was a death in your zone earlier. When I got home I checked it out."

"And?"

"And nothing. The public records are empty. It was John, wasn't it?"

I nod. Dalmar and John never met, but I talked about the family I live with to this, my second surrogate family, enough times that they know about them. I get a flash of guilt, for not bringing Tia, for us not being here together talking about this, but when I left she was laid on the bed, silent, staring at nothing. I didn't want to drag her out here, not even if Hele and Dal would have looked after her like they're looking after me. They might have made her feel better—they have so many times before—but I couldn't bring myself to disturb her.

"The records were empty?" Hele says, startling me back to the room. She sounds troubled now as she slides an arm around Dalmar's waist; the tension in his face softening, he leans against her. Gentler she adds, "There should be birth records at the very least."

"They told us he'd poisoned himself accidentally," I tell them, wishing I had someone to hold me the way Hele holds Dal when he has moments of unsteadiness. "Shouldn't that be in the records?"

Dalmar tugs a hand through his hair, leaving gold spikes in all directions. For some reason this is weighing him down. I can't work out why. "It should be, but it's not."

"So ..." I hover over an unseen edge, so close to falling over.

"So there's something we're not seeing. They don't leave records blank. If there's one thing I've learnt about States's military, it's that they want everyone to be accounted for. There's gotta be some encryption blocking me from seeing what's there."

I press my hands together, clammy, hearing the unsaid words—he's tried to beat that encryption. "You can't get past it?"

He laughs, frustrated. Hele rubs circles in his back. "I've been doing it for the past two hours. I should have it in a day or two."

I nod. After a long silence, I say, "There's something else. John was looking into the solar flares right before he disappeared. And he left a load of research on _The Sixteen Strains_ lying around. I know it sounds like nothing, but it's not like him to leave a mess, and I keep thinking he meant for us to find it. He's obsessive about tidiness. He wouldn't just leave it all there."

A sad look crosses her face and she toys with the buttons on her cotton blouse. "Honour..."

I push on. "And this evening they wrecked our house. House check, or so they said, but I think they were looking for something. They took our fingerprints and blood samples and handwriting and—" I have to stop and breathe, my chest tight, tighter even than earlier when I stood in the road surrounded by military.

Hele and Dalmar share a meaningful look.

Dalmar's eyes are brighter, a hard edge to them, when he asks, "What do you want me to find out?"

"What John knew, and why the Officials couldn't risk him telling anyone about it."

"Are you sure you want to know?" Dalmar's voice is guarded.

I nod. "I want to know everything."

Hele reaches across the table to lay her hand on my arm. "I think that might be too much for you right now."

"Then I want to know what happened to him."

Dal runs a calculating look over me. "I'll find that out for you, on one condition."

"And what's that?"

"That you go home right now and get some sleep."

"And stay for something to eat," Hele adds, giving me the same look. "There's stew in the cupboard. I'll heat it up."

"Alright," I agree begrudgingly. I know a battle I can't win when I see it.

***

Yosiah

20:22. 18.09.2040. Forgotten London, Ealing Zone.

When I let myself into the library to meet Miya again, I stop dead two steps inside. My chest tightens up until I can't breathe. My heart stumbles; my insides vibrate with terrified energy.

Brave Miya—fierce, dangerous Miya—is on her knees.

Her dark hair is plastered to the side of her face with a liquid that I hope isn't blood. Her arms are tied behind her back with rope that digs tighter every time she struggles. The leather jacket she's never seen without has a slash on the sleeve. I think I see blood on her arm as well and I nearly faint.

I can't do this.

There's no way I can cope with Miya being hurt. She keeps me strong, balanced. Calm. Now I'm anything but calm. My fingers are shaking and my mind struggles to wrap itself around Miya, tied on her knees, a gun to her head.

I fix a glare on the gunman behind her, trying to think through my fear. The gun doesn't seem to faze Miya but I want her away from the gun as quick as possible. Her green eyes are sparkling and furious, but when they meet mine they soften, and then they fill with worry.

For me.

There's a gun to her head, and she's worried about me.

I want to cross the room, shoving bookshelves and a trolley of books aside, and pull her into my arms. I never hug her because she doesn't like people to touch her, but right now I want to. I want to hug her and run from whoever this man is. I want to blow the electrics in the library until the whole building is on fire, and leave carnage and murder behind us. I want him dead with a cold fury that scares me.

He's not military; he wears a different uniform. Instead of the black clothes the Officials wear, this man is dressed all in white. There's a purple shield emblem on his breast pocket, unfamiliar. He's stone-faced and unflinching and he could kill the only person that matters to me in seconds.

"Who are you?" I force out. My voice is unsurprisingly strained.

"That doesn't matter to you." As stony as his expression. Does he really feel nothing, holding a gun to a girl's head, or is it years of practise that keeps any feeling off his face? His appearance is entirely silver—pale skin, tall, lean, hair so pale blonde it catches every bit of dim light in the library.

Miya whispers "Siah."

"Shut up, Miya," I say harshly. I expect to see hurt or betrayal in her eyes but I only see understanding. _Just stay quiet_ , I beg with my eyes, _just stay quiet and he might not kill you_.

It's barely perceptible, but she inclines her head. She knows what I'm trying to say. Something about that, being understood, settles my fast, churning thoughts until I can pull out a plan. It's dangerous for us as much as this gunman, and it will change the way Miya looks at me forever once she sees the darkness I'm really capable of, but to get us out of this, I'll do it.

I scrutinise Miya. Closer now, I can see she has a head wound, but it only looks shallow. She has a cut on her arm, as well as on her thigh, but I can't see how badly they are under her clothes. I should never have been stupid enough to leave her. I curse myself internally.

"I'm sorry if this is your territory," I say evenly, my eyes fixed on the man. Behind him I see an emergency door—it's no closer than the one behind me but it settles me to have a second exit. "We didn't realise it was occupied. We'll leave."

"This isn't about the building," he says. Same flat tone, so flat I think it's definitely false and the product of training. He could be an Official gone rogue. That only makes him more dangerous, and my blood goes cold as he tells me, "I've been sent to retrieve you."

_Breathe_ , I tell myself, _breathe._ "Why?"

"Our leader thinks you'll be useful to us."

_"Us?_ "

"You'll find out more if you come with me." Unyielding.

"I'm not leaving her."

"She said you'd say that."

From the way he says _she_ , it's clear he doesn't mean Miya. "Who did?"

"Again, you'll have to come with me if you want to know any answers."

I'm desperate. I'll do anything to get that gun away from Miya's head. "Tell me who your leader is, and I will. As long as my friend comes with me, and as long as she's not hurt, I'll come." I might have heard of them—I heard a few names of Officials gone rogue while I was an Official medic. It's not a part of my life I like remembering.

He mulls this over and nods. "Her name is Alba." Not a name I've heard. "She knows about you because of Timofei."

I falter. My eyes lock on Miya, but she doesn't know. I never told her. I struggle to breathe. Timofei is the whole reason I flinch away from my past an a medic, from any pleasant memory I might have held onto, every single thought connected to his name tinges with grief and misery. And guilt. "Timofei is dead," I say finally. My voice breaks. My fault. It's my fault he's dead. To say his name ... this gunman isn't just cool and terrifying. He's cruel.

"Obviously he's not," the gunman says. "If you want to know how, and if you want you and your friend to be safe, follow me through the back. There's a car waiting."

The stranger takes his gun from Miya and steps back. I rush towards her. She's hot and trembling in my arms, probably with anger rather than fear. I press my palms into her back, my heart jumping around in my chest as I try to absorb the fact that Miya's not shot, not dead. She's okay—alive—and as long as she's alive, I have a chance to get us out of whatever bad situation we're dragged into next.

A hitch in her breath, she leans into my embrace. It doesn't take a second before she remembers herself and pulls away. I pry a knife from my boot and carefully cut the ropes from her. I know the gunman is waiting for us—I can see him in my peripheral—but he doesn't stop me from cutting her loose.

Miya gets to her feet, unsteady but with clenched fists and a glare. She looks unshaken, completely herself. The opposite of me. Forcing my arms at my side, itching to touch her again, I take a step towards the back door.

The gunman ushers us through the building. I shudder as Miya wraps her fingers around my wrist. She avoids my gaze but she doesn't let go. We'll be okay. No matter where we're led, as long as she's with me, we'll be okay. Even if I have to do something unforgiveable to get us to safety.

***

Honour

03:24. 19.09.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

I sit in the kitchen at the crowded table that should only seat four. John is at its head, telling yet another of his stories. Tia sits beside him, hanging on his every word. I smirk as he tells us, not for the first time, about a bar fight he won against a guy that was almost seven feet tall.

There's a girl in the corner of the room, pressed between the junction of walls. She's striking and harsh-looking and her back is straight as she watches John, wary. This is the girl Yosiah keeps telling me about. The friend he found on the streets, long before we ran into each other in a library at night, him stealing food and me stealing books. I think her name is Miya.

_"Now," John says grandly, "down at_ The Grass Bar _in Hounslow Zone today, my opponent was a woman._ An actual woman; _not a girl. She had to be at least twenty three, and she was enormous. Taller than any woman I've seen before and twice as wide. The odds were three to one on her."_

"What happened?" Tia asks, her head propped on her hands.

"She flattened me. As soon as I stepped into the ring she flung herself at me and I was crushed under her weight. I was done for."

"So you lost?" Wes asks, his lips twitching with amusement.

John gives a noncommittal shrug. "I managed to wriggle myself free, got a hit or two on her."

"And then she took you down again?"

"Four times," John groans, running a hand through his messy brown hair. "I'd be surprised if I have any unbroken ribs left."

Thalia wafts past the table and swats her brother around the head with a wash rag. "You wouldn't be sitting upright if your ribs were broken."

John rolls his eyes and says, "I won, though, in the end."

Thalia snorts.

Wes's eyes pop out of his skull. "You never!"

"I did," John insists. He places sixty credits on the table. Thalia swears loudly and drops a handful of cutlery.

John begins to laugh suddenly. I ask what's funny but get no answer. His eyes are bright, crinkled. I can't work out what he's laughing at—all Thalia did was drop some forks—until Thalia starts laughing as well, pointing at the corner of the kitchen, at the ceiling. When I glance at where Yosiah and Miya sat, there's only an empty chair. My heart throws itself against my ribcage.

Next to me, a reassuring warmth, Tia's eyes track the same path as mine. But when she bursts out laughing I start screaming.

It doesn't sound anything like my voice.

In the corner of the kitchen the ceiling is red. Oozing, dripping onto the counter, into pans of boiling water and vegetables. My stomach clenches; I slide off my chair and double over on the floor. I vomit blood.

The red is growing, dripping, rushing towards me, running down the walls, and I choke. When I pull in air I breathe in blood. The walls are now completely red, enclosing me in a bloodied room, and I think it's over.

It's not.

Liquid rises from the floor like water in a tank but I'm sure it's blood. It rises and rises and I'm drowning.

"You killed me," a flicker image of John says right before I'm lost under waves of red.

"Honour!"

I thrash to escape the hands holding me down.

"Honour, _wake up_."

Tia. Her hands are gripping my shoulders so hard it hurts. My eyes fly open and my sister sighs in relief. "You were having a nightmare," she whispers as she brushes hair back from my forehead. I'm drowned in sweat. Not blood.

I nod. Just a nightmare, nothing else, nothing real. It might have started as a memory, but the end of my dream was imagined. Not real.

She tells me "You were calling out for John in your sleep."

I can't speak—if I open my mouth, I'm afraid I'll start laughing.

My sister sinks down beside me, curling against my side. She's quiet for minutes and I think she's asleep but then she shifts and says, "I miss him too."

I hold her and she holds me and neither of us mention the fact that I'm crying.

12:08. 19.09.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

The day after my nightmare, work drags, so slow I swear I worked a full day instead of a single shift. I make it back for just after twelve and find Thalia bracing herself against the kitchen countertop.

"Thalia? You okay?"

Her voice is strained. "Fine. Just feel a bit dizzy. I've been on my feet too much."

"Have you eaten anything? Maybe you haven't had enough—"

Thalia drops to the floor. I don't have time to catch her.

I freak out. I look around the kitchen for something to help, and my panic escalates because there's nothing. Of course there's nothing—we don't _have_ anything. I end up half-carrying, half-dragging her to her bedroom and laying her across the bed.

I stand above her and try not to think about what I should be doing.

_Dizziness. Fainting._ Both symptoms of the Strains. I can't remember which ones. It doesn't really matter.

I pull the cover on the bed tighter around Thalia.

I should be running to get an aid worker or an Official right now. But I don't know what they'd do to Thalia. I've known her for too long to give her up to them, and despite what they say, what they preach, I don't believe that they help or comfort Strains patients. That's just a load of crap to get people to hand over their families.

They're not having Thalia.

I stand in the doorway of Thalia and Wes's room and watch her sleep or pass out or whatever she's doing. She's still breathing, her heart's beating normally, and her skin is its normal colour, so I don't think it's too bad. Maybe she's just dizzy like she said. Maybe she hasn't had enough food. Maybe she's pregnant. There are a million different explanations. There's no need to assume she's dying.

***

Branwell

09:00. 19.09.1878. London.

My father's funeral service is unexpectedly short, and the burial is even shorter. I should be glad it's over but I'm only angry that they're rushing this goodbye. I should be permitted to grieve and remember my father at my own pace, but I can understand why Bennet would want the funeral to be today—she wants to put father to rest as soon as possible. She doesn't like the thought of him lying in an undertaker's back room for days. I suppose, for that reason, it's good the burial is over.

When we return home, everyone is silent. Benny doesn't utter a single word; she runs straight for her room and bolts the door. I stand in the anteroom and stare at the patchwork of tiles that make up the floor. Our friends and family are stood in a line against the back wall. Nobody is sure what to do now my father is gone, not even me. Nancy, our housekeeper, is the first to speak.

"Let's get you inside and warmed up, Sir. It must be cold outside."

"Don't," I say. It comes out in a hoarse whisper. "Don't call me Sir. Just call me Bran, like always."

Nancy nods and I manage a faint smile. Nancy has been with my family since long before Bennet and I were born. She's been here through my mother's death, my baby brother's, through everything. One of my first memories is of her teaching me how to spell my name. She shouldn't be calling me Sir, not under any circumstances.

"Come on, then," says Nancy soothingly. She takes me by the arm to the sitting room. The rest of our staff exchange worried looks for a moment and then they hurry away to whatever jobs need doing. Florence follows us, worrying her apron.

Nancy deposits me on a sofa and leaves to get Phoebe to prepare something to eat. Florence stands by the door and watches the fire flicker. I've almost forgotten she's there when she speaks.

"I'm sorry. About your father. I wish he hadn't gone like that."

"So do I," I mumble.

Florence perches on the arm of a chair, flattening her frizzy dark hair. "Was the funeral horrible?"

"No. Not horrible. It was just ... fast."

"Is that not a good thing? Now that it is over, you can mourn him at your own pace."

"It felt like we couldn't wait to be rid of him."

"But that's not true."

I chew my lip. "No."

"Maybe you're overthinking it."

"Maybe." I stare at the fire flickering opposite us. "I just wish Bennet hadn't picked today for the funeral. I needed more time. To get used to the idea of my father being gone."

"But she didn't," Florence says, touching my arm. "Some friends of your father organised the whole thing. Very generous, they were. You didn't have to pay for any of the expenses, or arrange the service. Your father had very kind friends."

"My father didn't have friends," I snap. Too harsh, too angry. When Florence's face falls I rush to apologise but she waves it off.

I hate this, moments when Florence—and the rest of our household—becomes less friend and more servant, when I do or say something stupid that reminds her of the social distance between us. It's puzzled many people in the past, our family's relationship with those who are assumed to be below our standing. To me, we're nothing out of the ordinary, but I know that our lives, relationships, and standing in the community are all unheard of. We are the black sheep of the Ravel family after all, and though our staff may not share that name, to us they're every bit a family to us as those stern stranger's faces we only see at events and official family outings.

But I see in the eyes of our chosen family that they feel unequal to us. I see it in Florence brushing away my apology, in the way she hastens to cover up a mistake that was mine, not hers.

"Maybe they were colleagues of his, not friends—people from the office he visited from time to time."

"The government office? But he told us that the people there despised him."

"It's surprising how people will change once someone dies." Her gaze is everywhere but on me.

"I suppose it is."

Florence stands and casts a sympathetic look over me. Something wavers when she looks at me and she becomes less of the housemaid and more of my friend. "You should change. That suit is too large for you and the shirt is too small. Do you want me to fetch Joel to help you?"

"No. Thank you, Florence, but ... I want to be alone for a while."

She smiles and flutters her hand over her hair, ensuring all the dark strands are rolled into their bun. She straightens her apron and gives me a meaningful look. "Don't you forget to eat something, Branwell Ravel."

"I won't," I say. "I promise."

She leaves me, to thoughts concerning the motives of my father's colleagues. I go over it all nine times, hunting for a valid reason for them to manage and fund the service, before I give up. I'm missing some information. It strikes me that I knew very little about my father and the things he did. I list the things I do know in order to ease the lump in my throat and the panic seizing my chest.

His name was William Henry Ravel.

He was thirty four years old.

He had no siblings.

He married my mother at a young age.

He had three children—two alive, one dead.

He was a genius, and an inventor.

He was reclusive.

When he smiled, his forehead wrinkled.

He had a way of seeing things that other people couldn't grasp, of taking things apart and reassembling them so that they were unrecognisable and vastly improved.

He invented the Lux, a device that could provide unlimited electricity to the entire world if used correctly.

He told me to hide it.

He told me to hide everything.

Why did I think that would help? The lump in my throat has given way to sobs and my whole body shakes as I try to contain them. I collapse upon the sofa and fold my body as small as I can.

16:07. 19.09.1878. London.

I assume everyone has left me alone to cope with my grief when I wake up hours later, the house practically empty. When I venture out of the sitting room I come across nobody. No Benny, but I have a feeling she'd rather be alone so I let her be. Instead, my legs take me in the opposite direction and up the worn stairs into the attic.

Everything is as I left it. I imagine for a moment that my father has simply gone to dinner and he'll be back soon. I can almost see him rushing up the stairs, eager to get back to work, but nobody climbs the staircase and especially not my father.

My heart crushed, I approach the display case of his inventions. My fingers run over the glass surface and snap open the clasp holding it shut. I was never permitted to access these but nobody is here to stop me now.

I fight back emotion as I pick up a syringe-like device the size of my palm. It's made of brass and steel and has to be sterilised after every use. Instead of a plunger, it has a trigger—the kind you find on a gun—and instead of inserting something into the body, it removes it. I stare at it, eyes blurred. My father named it _The Cure_. We created it together.

It took months of experiments and testing to perfect it. _The Cure_ can remove any disease from the body at any stage of infection but it's useless with poisons. I tried so many times to use it to save my father. Useless, like every other thing I've done with my life.

I set _The Cure_ back in its place and trail my fingertips over the other devices. There are twenty in total, some more important than others, some more fanciful, and others entirely pointless. But regardless of their purpose, my father wanted me to hide them all.

Is there any point trying to find logic in his wishes? After so long just staring, I decide to stop questioning and just honour my father's wishes. I take every one of his inventions, place them in a wooden trunk buried under a pile of rubbish. I can't put _The Cure_ in with the rest; it holds too many memories.

My arm muscles straining, I haul the trunk down to my room without passing anyone. I make a God awful racket though. I'm surprised someone doesn't come running. There's an external door at the back of my room. It's in an alcove occupied by a huge bookcase but I wrench the shelf away, using all of my body strength—adequate thanks to hauling equipment and tools up and down the attic stairs—until I have full access to the door. I almost have the bookcase out of the way when topples towards me. Fast, I scurry out of its path, my chest hollow as I stare at the sorry state of my books. There are hundreds, all unsettled and ruffled and suffocated by the huge oak structure.

Standing here, emotions starts to creep back, so I haul the trunk into my arms and pick my way to the door.

It's bitingly cold outside, and I shiver against the air as I drag the trunk across our grounds. I'm careful to check that no one is watching me, but most of the windows are dark and our neighbours are too far away to see me.

I pause, panting for breath, in front of the old mausoleum on our grounds. The circular handle is rusted and ancient but stays intact as I wrench the door open. It seems morbid to put the inventions with the dead, but I can't think of anywhere else. And it's fitting—they'll never be put to use again, their purpose dead with my father.

***

Honour

18:21. 19.09.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

Horatia got home a few minutes ago. I asked her why she was late but she shrugged me off. She's sat with Thalia now, holding her hand and whispering comforting words that I'm not meant to hear. There's a film of tears over her eyes. Wes is stood silently beside me, his eyes watching the women with a shattered expression.

"This isn't right," he says to me.

"I know."

Wes slumps against the wall, his big chest shuddering with his next breath.

Inside the bedroom, Thalia wakes, as if highly tuned to David's cries. She lurches in the bed, retching. Horatia gets a bin under her head just as the contents of Thalia's stomach hit the bottom of it. When she's finished, Thalia falls back against the bed, breathing heavily.

Loud breathing turns to muttering, and after a while the muttering turns to screams. Wes slides down the wall. I take a step but I don't know what to do. My chest is tight with panic, every breath I take struggling to inflate my lungs.

"This is really bad," I say to Horatia, stumbling to the side of the bed.

Thalia registers my voice and her eyes fix on me. They widen and fill with fear as I scrounge up my courage and properly look at her. When our eyes meet, Thalia lashes out with sharp nails and rakes them across my face from my ear to my chin. As I stumble back, gasping in shock, my face throbbing, she begins to wail.

"It's alright," Tia says, gentle. "You're alright, Thalia."

But nothing will soothe Thalia now. I yank my sister out of the way as Thalia reaches her hands out to strangle her. Tia's tense and stiff where I'm weak and trembling.

"Get away from me, you demons!" Thalia screeches. "I can see you. _You can't hide from me_."

"Oh God," Tia chokes.

"Damned creatures!"

My chest so tight, I push Tia out of the door, drag Wes with us, and slam the door. I have nothing to put against it to block Thalia if she wants to come at us. I can only hope she doesn't.

There's nothing we can do for her now.

Horatia is paralysed with fear, Wes is frozen, silent, and I'm shivering, chilled to my core.

Thalia has Strain Twelve.

***

Branwell

19:58. 19.09.1878. London.

There is someone hammering at our door. I'm not awake enough yet to wonder why nobody has answered it. I turn over, block out the racket, and go back to sleep—but my sleep is short lived. Bennet's shoes tap down the stairs; she shakes my shoulder.

"Bran. There are people here. They want to take some of father's work for a tribute."

I sit up quickly. "What did they say? Exactly."

"That they're here to collect our father's best work for display in a tribute."

My stomach rolls, uneasy. Is this why I had to conceal everything? "I'll deal with it," I say and Benny sighs with relief.

"They're in the anteroom. Try to be respectful, Bran. They look very serious."

I promise her I will. Walking as casually as I can down the hall upstairs, I tell myself to remain calm. When I enter the anteroom, one of the men is examining a jade vase my aunt brought us from her travels in Asia.

"Can I help you?" I try to sound as calm and confident as possible. I consider how my father would speak to men like these, but he'd just rant about his latest work and bore them to death. It takes a genius brain to understand genius rambles.

The second man fixes his attention on me, scrutinising me. I can tell by the look on his fact that he dismisses me instantly. I stand straighter. Who is this man to look down on me, and in my own home?

"Are you Branwell. W. Ravel?"

"I am."

"Good." The first man shifts away from the vase and comes towards me. He, like his companion—friend or associate or brother or assistant?—is dressed in a dark suit, polished shoes, and a tall hat. The other man rests upon a silver-headed cane. "We're friends of your late father's," the stranger continues. "We worked with him on a number of projects and advancements."

I nod. Anything I say will sound scathing or suspicious, so I remain silent.

"We're here on behalf of the British Government," the second man informs me. "Our employer means to install a tribute to William, you see, in the British Museum."

"Really?" My father was mocked and ridiculed for his ideas. He wasn't the sort of inventor a tribute would be created for. Slow, I recall that these men are most likely liars, trying to fool me into handing over father's work. What they want it for, I have no idea, but I won't disrespect my father's last request.

"Yes, really." The man with the cane hands me a scroll of paper which I read slowly, memorising the information. It's a letter from my father's employer confirming everything these strangers have told me. An emblem is inked at the bottom of the letter; I don't particularly recognise it but it's very aesthetically pleasing. A great lion strides towards me in ink and on its back rides a hawk, or an eagle; I'm not entirely sure. The bird's wings are spread on either side of it. Underneath are the words ' _Olympiae: For the betterment and progression of humanity_.'

"What do you require?" I ask, still staring at the emblem.

"A small number of your father's inventions. No more than three."

"Oh." I glance up at them, carefully schooling my features. "But we had all of his work cremated in remembrance. It was our way of saying goodbye." I don't know if they'll believe this but it's the best I can concoct under pressure.

The two men share a look.

"Didn't you think that was a waste?" the first man asks.

"He would have wanted us to move on." It's not difficult to push grief and hurt into my words. "I'm sorry I can't be any help."

They confer between themselves, and then the smaller man says, "If you wouldn't mind, we'd still like to observe his workstation, the place where so many great developments came to life."

"I ... yes, of course." I can't think of an excuse to keep them out. "I'll show you there now."

Nerves sloshing about my stomach, I lead them into the hallway beyond. I half expect one of them to hit me over the head and drag my body somewhere, but we make it to the attic without such problems. I'm sure it's just my overactive imagination.

The men walk around and look at everything greedily. I stay in the corner and watch them, my shoulders hunched. They 'observe' everything, but I'd be more inclined to call it ransacking than observing.

"Is this where they were?" one of them enquires, tapping the empty glass case. I confirm that it was. "Such a pity they were all destroyed. Your father's creations could have done great things."

And terrible things, I'm sure. That's the trouble with powerful machines—they can be turned to good or evil depending on the hands that hold them.

"Where did you burn them?"

"In the grounds. Behind the house." I tense, expecting them to ask to see the burned site, but the question never arises.

"Thank you, Branwell," says the first man amiably. "That will be all we require."

The second shoots him a questioning look.

"We'll be leaving now."

"I'll show you out," I say, stepping down the stairs. My imagination begins firing possibilities at me again, all of them ending in my blood being shed.

"That won't be necessary. I can remember the way we came. I have an excellent memory."

I want to press the matter; I want to escort them to the door and bolt it shut behind them but I can't do that without seeming suspicious. Or paranoid. I say, "Well if you're sure," and I bid them goodbye.

I plan to follow them but the smaller man glances behind himself and almost catches a glimpse of me, so I'm forced to return to my room and ponder their visit.

22:06. 19.09.1878. London.

I wait an hour before I give into the all-consuming need to rush out to the mausoleum and check that my father's inventions are still there.

The door isn't as rusted as the last time I was here; some of it has been chipped off. Or maybe the pouring rain is altering my perception. Maybe I did it myself when I was here. I honestly can't remember; the entire day is a blur of dark coats, tall hats, and people being sorry for my loss. Perhaps burying the chest of inventions was a dream that never truly happened.

Inside the mausoleum, the rain chattering on the roof, I kneel on the dirt floor. There are marks in the dirt, impressions of fingers clawing through the floor. My breathing stumbles. Next to the marks is an empty hollow. Was this where I dropped my father's devices? I try to imagine the smartly dressed men from earlier on their hands and knees, scrambling about in the dirt. I can't visualise it.

Maybe I really did dream I buried those things. But then why the hole, the pile of dirt? I blink my blurring eyes. The attic will tell me, one way or another, whether it was real.

When reach the staircase, my limbs feel like liquid instead of a solid mass. I can't go up there. I'm not brave enough. I sink onto the bottom step and sit there with my head in my hands. There's dirt in the lines of my palm. I stare at it as minutes pass, until a wall of dizziness slams into me. I don't know if I've eaten anything since breakfast. My head is going around and around, my vision with it, and I slump against the wall.

"Here." I look up to see Bennet holding out a bread roll. I take it without speaking and rip it apart, stuffing it in my mouth.

"Thank you," I say when it's gone. Normally I would try to smile but I don't have the energy.

Bennet's arms are around herself, as if she feels like she's falling apart like I do, as I she can hold herself together with the sheer force of her will. Serious eyes on me, she asks, "What are we going to do now?"

I think about it for a long moment, waiting for the world to stitch itself back together. For my body to feel like flesh and bone again. "We're going to learn how to live by ourselves."

"We could go to Aunt Ava's house for the winter," she suggests.

That's the last thing I want—being forced into clothes I hate, socialising with people I hate, false friendliness, stuffy dinners, being paraded around by my aunt. "I don't want to leave home."

She nods. She's silent for long minutes before she turns, without a word, and walks stiffly down the corridor. I know she's crying, and I want to run after her and hug her, but I don't move. I have to go up, into the attic. I have to.

I take several minutes to pull myself together and trudge up the stairs. It's dark up here; I almost trip on a couple of stairs. Out of breath, I stumble onto the flat landing at the top and fumble around in relative darkness for the light cord. I tug it hard and a white light floods the area. I've never been gladder for the electricity system my father had installed up here.

I stare at the familiar space, inhaling its dust and metal smell. Wooden floorboards, a mess of books and metal parts piled in the corners, a bookshelf against the far wall full of my father's books on science and innovations, the smashed glass case that used to sit beside it, broken and ravaged. How did I not hear this happen?

My boots crush glass as I stagger closer, a few stray tears dropping amongst the glass. How could I have let this happen? Worse—I remember that I couldn't distinguish what was real and a dream. Did I do this?

***

Honour

03:34. 20.09.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

I'm awoken in the middle of the night by a sound like a dying animal. My thoughts go straight to Horatia but she's beside me, sat upright in bed. I reach out to her but she slips away, crossing the room.

And then I think of Thalia. My face still stings from her nails—her nails cut so deep that I might be left with a scar or two. The keening gets louder, and I'm out of bed before I realise it.

"She might hurt you," Tia whispers.

"She might need help."

She hovers in the doorway. "Honour, she's _dying_. Nothing can help."

Something inside me just snaps. "Why are you being a heartless _bitch_? What's happened to you, Tia?"

"You want to know what's happened to me?" She matches my anger but her voice cracks. I step back a little at the wildness in her eyes. "You sneaking out at night is what's happened to me. You getting through that damned fence is what's happened to me. You going into _the diseased lands_ is what's happened to me. If you're wondering what's wrong with Thalia, and Wes, and what happened to John—it's _you_. You're killing everyone."

The room kind of tilts around me as the words sink in. I shut my eyes as if it'll hold off any more words. She's right. I don't remember telling her about the border and the diseased lands but she's right. _I did this._

I went into the diseased lands. John died the same day. Thalia's caught a Strain now, and Wes will probably die of it too. _It's my fault._ It's been my fault all along. No military or conspiracy or cover-up. It's just me.

I don't know how I get there but I end up on the floor, hand pressed hard to the aching in my chest. Thalia's keening in the background dulls until all I can hear is my heart beating way too fast.

After a silent minute my sister comes back, her tall, thin frame looming above me.

Her voice is livid. It cuts through me like the sharp edge of a knife.

"You killed her."

13:03. 20.09.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

For the third time in a too-small period, there are Officials at our house. I'm starting to get used to their presence.

I have to pull the door hard to get it open. It fell off its hinges yesterday—just another casualty of the Officials' house check—and last night before I went to bed I had to wedge it in the frame to block out the cold

"Honour Frie?" the Official in charge asks. It sounds less like a question than a statement. He already knows who I am. I'd be surprised if there's anyone in Forgotten London who doesn't know who I am. I've become famous for something I did accidentally. The boy who killed his family.

"Yeah, that's me," I say. "Can I help you?"

"We're here to collect the body of a ..." He consults a clipboard, all professional. He has a Forgotten London accent; I hope it's worth it—turning into the enemy, all for fifty extra credits per week. His uniform is embroidered with First Lieutenant in gold thread, his collar and lapel crooked. I don't think he'll last long. Local Officials never seem to. "Thalia Norton," he finishes.

I must have misheard him. "What?"

"She was a resident here, wasn't she?"

"Yeah. _Yes._ But ... how did you know she died?"

"It was reported to an Official an hour ago."

Something grips my throat. Suffocates me. Horatia must have told them. How could she hand Thalia over to them so soon? I know she's ashamed of me, I know it's my fault all this is happening, but I didn't think she'd do this to Thalia.

"Oh," I make myself say. I step back to let them enter. There's nothing I can do if I don't want an arm blown off. "She's in the first room on the right."

The Official looks at me curiously like he's trying to work me out, but his face snaps back into an expressionless mask as he marches into Thalia and Wes's room. Two other Officials wander in after him, one of them with a rolled up plastic bag. To put Thalia in. I feel sick. Instead of watching them, I sit in the living room.

"They've come for Thalia's b—" I start to say but there's no one here. John would usually be around, slouched in his armchair with a book or knelt at the coffee table playing cards. Thalia would be snapping at us to help her with something or other. Wes would get up to help, acting all grumpy about it, and he and Thalia would argue playfully. My house would be full of family, life, and laughter. Instead it is full of Officials.

I don't belong here anymore.

***

Branwell

14:05. 20.09.1878. London.

I regain consciousness on the floor of my father's attic, covered in cuts and blood. I groan and roll into a sitting position. The glass from the cabinet has cut into my face, my arms, my hands, and into my back if the stinging sensation is any indication. Pulsating pain covers my whole body. Wincing as I stand, I brush the remnants of glass off my body and survey the catastrophe.

The attic is completely devastated.

I pull a shard of glass from my cheek; it makes a tinkling sound when it hits the polished wood floor. I want suddenly to tidy the space.

I start by taking a broom from the corner of the room—placed specifically for disasters in my father's inventing. I feel better once the floor is clear of glass. After that, I, pile the messy piles of books into neater columns, putting as many back on the shelves as I can. But that's only neatened one corner of the room. The rest is a scattered cacophony of papers, books, and invention sketches. The drawers in the desk are on the floor; their contents discarded. I stare for a long moment. Until now, I assumed I'd lost my mind, that _I_ was responsible for this, but I wouldn't ransack my father's drawers.

The previous day replays in my mind—the funeral, Florence saying my father's friends funded his service, me burying the inventions in the mausoleum, the men from my father's work appearing in our home. I have no doubt those men did this after they 'saw themselves out' and that they were looking for my father's work.

When they found nothing inside the house, they must have ventured outside and found everything in the mausoleum. I was stupid to hide them there. I should have taken a carriage and hidden them somewhere far away.

Everything is gone. And I am to blame.

My eyes burn as I stare at the chaos surrounding me. After a while the swimming shades and colours come back together and form actual shapes and concrete images. There is paper around my father's desk.

I kneel, blinking repeatedly, and gather the papers into a stack. I set them on the desk but I notice with irritation that I've missed a small slip of paper. When I bend down, I find that it's not paper at all but a ray of light coming from under the floorboards.

My fingers dart out of their own accord and pull at the board. As I suspected, the wood comes up in my hand. There, nestled safely, is a dark wooden box lit by a tiny electric light on the underside of the floorboard. I inhale sharply, a tremor moving through my hands. On the top of the box inlaid in silver is a triangle, and in gold, running through the heart of the triangle, is a key with a long neck and two sets of maze-like teeth; one on each side. I frown at it before I wrench the box open.

Inside are a number of brown leather journals and a single black one, and a small gold filigree-embossed box. It's the box I pick first, snapping open the clasp, eager and bewildered and nervous. Inside, on a plush velvet platform, sit two golden bangles. On the outside of the bracelets are a number of carved symbols that I don't recognise and the key glyph from the wooden box. On the inner side of the bracelet, I see as I lift one, is my sister's name engraved in a neat script. I snatch up the other one and find that it has my name inset in gold. My heart races to leave the confines of my chest. Fear and excitement.

I'm about to slip the thing onto my wrist when the inside of the golden box catches my attention. On a folded piece of paper, written in capitals and underlined, are the words: _DO NOT PUT ON THE BRACELETS!_ I drop the bangle and take the paper from the gilt case with trembling fingers. It's in my father's handwriting.

As I unfold the warning, I find a letter. I no longer know how to breathe.

Bran, for I know it will be you that finds this—your inquisitiveness has always been greater than your sister's.

I am dead, I assume. The poison has finally caught up to me and claimed my life. I'm sorry. I never intended to leave you so soon.

I have hidden everything you need to know in this box. Read the black journal first, it will explain most of what you deserve to know. Once you understand the events inside that journal, move backward in time through the brown journals until you have the bigger picture.

_The bracelets inside this box have the power to take you wherever and whenever you need to go. They do not have the luxury of taking you wherever you_ want _to go, but I have found that they are effective nonetheless. Sometime in the future, be it near or distant, you will need these bracelets, and here they will wait for you. Do not place them upon your wrists until that time. You will know it when it occurs._

I hope you find these things useful. And I hope you will not let the Lux stay in unworthy hands. I'm certain it will be taken, be it by accident or by force, but I'm also certain that you will reclaim it before the time is too late.

Promise me this, Branwell: do not let yourself be overcome with vengeance or anger. Do not let the contents of this box harden your heart. And for the love of all that exists, protect your sister, and allow her to protect you.

Your father.

***

Bennet

11:02. 21.09.1878. London.

Earlier this morning I wrote to our cousin Carolina. I don't know how to manage a household in the place of my father, and Branwell won't do it. He's been absent since last night. I know he's in the depths of his basement but I have no way of knowing if he's alright because he has bolted the door. So I contacted Carolina. She always knows what to do.

Sometime after eleven a carriage rolls across the gravel courtyard. I rush to the front door as Carolina is making her way up the grey stone steps. She looks older than she did when I saw her last—she must be twenty three now—but her hair is the same dark blonde it always was, and it's arranged in loose curls around her shoulders. A purple plumed hat sits on her head, matching the elaborate dress she's wearing, and her family necklace rests around her neck as it did when I saw her last—at her and Jeremy's wedding ceremony.

"Goodness," Carolina says, casting a look around herself. "This place is positively lifeless. Where are all your servants?"

"They're giving us space."

"They're leaving you to your own devices at a time like this?"

"They're being kind."

"Some servants," she scoffs.

_"Carolina_."

She ignores me and squares her delicate shoulders, tossing her hair. "We'll soon fix that. Where's that eccentric brother of yours?"

"I'm not exactly sure. In his basement, I think."

"You _think_? No wonder you wrote to me."

"I hoped you'd fix everything," I venture hopefully. She takes me by the elbow and leads me inside the house with a small smile. "You're lucky I'm feeling so obliging. Go into the sitting room and I'll see if I can coax your brother out"

I give her a doubting look. "I don't think it'll be that easy."

"O' ye of little faith. Didn't I tell you to go to the sitting room?"

I hesitate for a moment too long. Carolina claps her hands twice and sends me scuttling away.

14:36. 21.09.1878. London.

"He won't come out," I tell Carolina, just about holding back my _I told you so_ as she pushes at the unmoving statue that is the door to my brother's room.

"We'll see about that," she says with a determined glint in her eye. "Branwell William Ravel, this is your cousin Carolina. I'm ordering you to leave this room immediately or there will be severe repercussions."

She holds her breath, but there's no answer.

"Ignorance is rude and unbecoming, Branwell!" She pushes the door again. "Very well. I will arrange for someone to come and remove it."

She steps away from the door as if expecting it to open. I know better than that. Threats don't work with Bran when he's in this state.

"Nothing?" She crosses her arms over her chest. "Fine. Come along, Bennet, we'll leave your brother to die in peace."

I flinch hard. "I just lost my father and you think it's appropriate to joke about _my brother_ dying?" My voice is rising, along with the fanged beast of panic in my chest. "I asked you here because I thought you could help, but if you think my father's death is something to be laughed over, then—"

"She didn't mean it that way," Bran says wearily. Carolina and I jump in shock. Neither of us noticed the door to Branwell's room slide open.

"I'm sorry, Bennet," Carolina mumbles but I barely hear her. Branwell pulls me close to him, murmuring things I can't really hear but none of that matters because he's alright.

"I'm not leaving my room," he declares once I've finally calmed.

"What?"

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news," Carolina says with a wry smile, "but you are no longer inside your room."

He ignores her and talks to me instead. "I'm not sulking and I'm not starving myself, but there's a real reason that I need to stay down here."

"Are you working on something?" I ask. My throat feels raw.

"You could say that." He embraces me one last time and steps back into his room. "I'll explain everything once I'm certain of it."

"I—" I begin to say, but he closes the door against my words.

Carolina tuts. "Charming. Not so much as a hello."

***

Honour

12:07. 21.09.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

When I come out of the clothing factory after my shift, Dalmar is leant against the wall waiting for me.

"Do you have much time?" he asks, pulling on the sleeve of his dark jacket.

"About half an hour."

"Come on, then. We need somewhere to talk without people listening."

He leads me five minutes away from work, in the opposite direction to my home, to a small grassy area in a corner of Hammersmith I've never seen before. After a moment of deliberation, Dal lowers himself onto a damp bench. I think about standing but then sit next to him.

"Won't people hear us?" I ask

"No." He smiles knowingly. "Nobody comes here. People think it's cursed with the spirits of Strains victims." He rakes a hand through his hair.

"You cracked the encryption, didn't you?"

"I did." Even his voice is tired. "John was executed for treason."

"Treason ..."

"Yeah, I don't know either. We don't have royalty to commit treason against, and the exact act of treason isn't even listed."

"Should it be?"

"It's all lies. I'm sorry, Honour. I wanted to find some real answers for you."

My fingers grip the bench under me so hard they hurt. "No," I say. "Dal ... I killed them. I didn't mean to. But I got past the border, I went _out_." I look around us but there's no one even close. "I went into the diseased lands, and then John died. And Thalia, his sister. It's all my fault."

He wrangles me into a hug. "I saw that. She's listed as an accomplice."

"But I killed them both. Why would it say treason when I killed them?" A though strikes me. "Oh God, I brought Strains in and all the people I've been around—Tia, _shit_ , you, Hele. Dalmar, I'm so sorry, I—"

"Don't." He hugs me tighter. "It's alright, calm down, Honour. I don't think you did kill John and Thalia. _I don't think you killed them._ " He pauses as that settles into my brain, as the tight grip on my throat lessens enough for me to breathe. "Everyone in the forgotten lands has a status. You know that. It's usually listed as blank or insentient."

I swallow, struggling to keep myself together. "I don't know what you're—"

"John's wasn't, and neither was his sister's. John was down as **dangerous: resolved**. His sister was **neutral: resolved**. Everyone is usually blank but _they_ had a status. That's not something you did."

"Then—me going out—"

"Was just coincidence," he says gently. He squeezes my shoulder then lets me go.

I look at him, my thoughts wild. "What's my status? And Tia's?"

"Insentient. And mine and Hele's. And before you ask, I don't know what it means for us."

"Can you find out?"

"I've tried. There's no explanation." He runs a hand over his face. "We'll find out eventually. Or maybe we never will. I don't care."

I stare at him. This isn't like him at all. "Dal?"

"I'm just fed up of all this." He sweeps his hand towards our surroundings. "Don't you ever get tired?"

"Always. I don't stop being tired."

He's quiet for what must be ten minutes and I almost leave. I can't think of anything to say to him, not with my mind still stuck on the word _coincidence_. It can't be a coincidence. I'm not sure I even believe in them.

"What's it like? Outside?" he asks. When I open my eyes, he's staring into the distance. He'd been so quiet that his whispered words make me jump. I don't think he notices.

"Empty," I say. "Free."

He sighs. "Would you want to get out, if there was a way?" He looks at me, serious and intent. "If there was a way you could live without all of this, would you?"

"Without a second thought."

He nods and goes back to staring into space.

"Would _you_?" I ask.

He says, "I'm working on it." He pats my shoulder and then he's away before I can ask what he means. I go after him, but by the time I reach the center of Hammersmith, he's lost to the midday crowds.

17:35. 24.09.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

For the next week nothing happens.

And I hate it.

It feels wrong to carry on, to just get on with life after what's happened this week—John and Thalia dying, the house check, Horatia's broken sobs waking me in the night—but I don't know what else to do. So I do everything as normal and don't let myself think. If I catch a thought in my empty mind, I pinch my arm until it disappears.

I don't think about how much I need to go somewhere _, do something_ , to find out why my family was taken from me. I don't think about how empty everything is now that they're missing. I don't think about why I have to make dinner when it's usually Thalia or Wes making it. I just get on with it, pinch my arm, and don't think. I definitely don't think about the hollow, heavy feeling in my body, the lead weight in my bones, the gravity that is grief. I don't think about the fact I haven't seen Wes in days.

There's a dark bruise constantly inked onto my skin.

Every day I go to work in the clothing factory and I spend each minute making dresses and shawls and camisoles out of wool and angora and silk. It's like they've dropped the pretence that they give a crap about us—whether we have anything to wear or we freeze to death.

Every other day I spend my nights canning food—rice, beans, slimy vegetables, processed meat, and unknown fruit. I'm glad I'm only in canning; I'd hate to work in the place where they make this stuff. It's all made in vats, _grown especially for you_.

I don't risk stealing anything this week. I figured life is bad enough without being executed for theft, and I don't want to bring the Officials down on Tia.

Whenever Horatia gets home in the evenings, she shuts herself in our room and cries herself to sleep. I can do nothing but sit outside the door and listen. Helpless. John's dead. Thalia's dead. Wes is gone. It's just us left, and even though I feel sick inside, I force myself to get on with things. I'm praying the glimmer of normality will bring Tia out of her shadow.

Wednesday I go to the Hydration Centre in John's place and pick up our ration of water for the week. I manage to carry the tub home without spilling a drop, even in the busy streets. Wednesdays are like that. People walk with their arms by their sides, in straight lines. We do everything possible not to knock anyone else because we know what it's like to be without water. Any other day people rush and shove but never Wednesday.

On Friday I see Hele in the Allocation Centre, as I follow the metal grid, gathering food and supplies. She works at the bakery table, handing out tiny loaves of bread. It's not much but it's bread; anyone would be stupid not to take it.

Hele offers me a small worried smile and pats my hand as she puts the bread inside my paper bag. "How are you doing?"

"Better than Tia." My reply is worn down.

"She just needs time, Honour. Time and her brother."

A laugh catches in my throat. "She doesn't want anything to do with me."

She reaches across the steel table to squeeze my hand. "She might not want you around but she needs you."

A boy behind me starts shoving, ripping Hele's hand from mine, and I snap my head in his direction to glare.

"You're above conflict," Hele murmurs calmingly, catching my arm. I'm not above conflict at all, and definitely not right now when I have so much anger and shame and desperation boiling inside of me. But Hele is here, and I wouldn't feel right socking someone in the face in front of her.

I move on, through the steel sheets that form the walls of the Allocation Centre. This week I have enough credits to feed five people and only two mouths to feed. I buy everything I know Tia likes. I'm desperate enough to get her to talk to me again that I visit the outdoor market the next day and come away with a sewn brooch. It's in the shape of a sparrow, embroidered in subdued, earthy colours.

Sunday, when I go to work with the sunrise, everyone is talking about the following day—the Victory Day celebration. There's gonna be a float in F.L. this year, or so everyone insists, and States's President himself is going to be riding on it. It's supposed to go through all the major areas in Forgotten London, from zone 1 to 41, and finish in Watford Zone at the edge of town.

I don't believe it for a second, but I guess I'll find out; every citizen is required to be in the streets. For us in Hammersmith, Lyric Square will be set up. It'll be packed full of people and three times as many Officials as usual, shipped in to make sure there's no trouble.

On a big screen, we'll watch a tediously long film about the history of our world. It never shows much of what the world was like before the Cities were formed because all our records and archives were destroyed by the flares, but there are reconstructions of the disaster. The rest of the film is made up of the President of States telling us what happened after the flares—how people were thrown into chaos and violence and States had to step in to save humanity. How things have calmed and improved since the world was contained within the borders. How _The Sixteen Strains_ tore our population apart. How States saved us again. How they value our continued support and cooperation. How lucky we are to be cared for by States, their President, and their military.

Most importantly: how we should learn from the past. How we shouldn't follow the example of the Unnamed—a man who resisted the borders and risked the lives of everyone in his town and, in turn, the entire world. A selfish, despicable man we should never talk about except on Victory Day when we celebrate his death.

It's a waste of time.

At the end of the night, the President will speak to us, all the Forgotten Towns. He'll praise how well we're doing, how happy he is that our towns have survived another year of death and disaster. And then he'll pause, as he always does, and announce the lucky citizen that's granted access to life in States. It's meant to be a show of faith, a great opportunity for someone to better their life. All I see are people being taken from their families and thrown into an unknown place halfway across the world.

Even my sister starts talking about the celebration after a while. I get sick to death of hearing about Victory Day. I'll be glad when it's done.

***

Bennet

09:47. 26.09.1878. London.

Five days after Branwell shut himself in his room Carolina decides she's had enough.

I jump almost out of my seat when she forcefully closes the book she's reading. A smatter of dust jumps into the air and I fear for the condition of those dear pages. "I've had it," she hisses at the space in front of her. "He says he's working on something, and that's all well and good but he's going to run out of food soon enough. And who is he to assume we women can't aid him in his work? What are we— _furniture_?"

A laugh bubbles in my throat. Carolina's attention turns to me. "We're getting him out of that bloody room if it is the last thing we do."

Carolina swearing never fails to shock me. Then again she's never been one to conform to expectations of her.

Five minutes later and I don't know how she did it, but Bran joins us in the sitting room.

"Father had reason to believe that he was murdered," he says without preamble. "Poisoned."

I sit upright, surprise beating through me. "Bran—what? _Why?_ "

"The people he worked for weren't good people. They wanted the Lux, one of his inventions."

"The strange gun device?"

His face creases into a smile. "No, that's the Cure. The Lux is different. It looks like the lead-acid batteries that father sometimes used but it's coated in a shell of pure titanium. It could generate enough power to provide electric energy to the whole world for a year—in under a minute. Well, if used in the correct way, that is."

"You cannot be serious," Carolina whispers, her eyes large and awed. "Such a thing can't exist."

"It does. And now they have it."

"Those men," I say, remembering. "They came to take our father's work for a tribute."

"I tried to hide everything." Bran sounds miserable. "I failed. They have all of our father's inventions. His whole life's work."

"What will they do with them?" I lean forward on the sofa.

"Father says it will do unfathomable things—that it could end our world."

"That's all very melodramatic if you ask me," Carolina puts in, brushing a crease from her skirt. "What do those men want with it in the first place?"

"In father's journals he said that they have some kind of a weapon, but they need an energy device to power it with."

"Oh," she says, understanding. "And that is why they want the..."

"Lux," Bran provides. "Yes."

Carolina's eyes narrow. "But nothing of that explains why you think he was killed."

I nod, grasping at anything. "Exactly. Are you sure he _was_ poisoned, Bran? Surely it's a mistake. You must be wrong—"

There's no fire in Bran when he sighs, "Do I ever tell you anything I'm not certain of? He refused to give them the Lux because he found out about the weapon they have. He wanted nothing to do with it. He even filed his resignation but they wouldn't let him leave."

I feel sick.

Carolina has gone pale. "And then what?"

"Then they just let him go. I ... I think they had poisoned him by then, and they were waiting for him to die." Bran drops his head into his hands.

Without conscious thought, I get up and sit beside him, holding his hand tightly. "How could someone do that to our father? He was the nicest, most generous—" Without any warning signs, my breathing grows wildly out of my control, stopping any words I might have said. _Not now_ , I think, _not now_.

"Benny?" Bran sounds far away. "Bennet! It's okay. Everything's going to be okay, I promise you."

His words usually comfort me but the hysteria gripping my chest already has its hold on me. My breathing spirals further out of my reach, my shaking hands sit in my lap, useless, and my thoughts are a swirling mass of despair. My father is gone—gone for good. Buried. _Murdered._

And then Branwell is embracing me, holding me tightly, and it takes minutes but the strong beat of his heart is enough to bring me back to reality.

Carolina is knelt in front of me with a wet towel and a frightened expression. I don't know how much time has passed in my panic. "Will this help?" she asks.

It won't help at all, but I accept it anyway and she smiles in relief. Bran holds my shoulders in a tight grip. "I'm alright," I rasp.

Carolina murmurs, "I don't mean to return to the subject again, but we really need to know who those men were."

With great effort I pull myself together and give my brother a weak smile to tell him I'm alright. All the tension drops from him.

Bran says, "They presented me with a message when they came for the inventions. On the bottom of it was a symbol—a lion with a bird on its back. There were some words underneath, something about humanity, perhaps, but I'm not sure." He frowns at the wall. "I can't remember."

Carolina rises with a determined look on her face. "I'll ask Jeremy if he knows anything about it. In the meantime, get dressed for outdoors and I'll ensure the carriage is ready."

I ask "Are we going somewhere?"

"Branwell?" Her voice is steady and clear—business-like. "I trust you know the location of the offices your father worked in?"

"Yes," my brother replies, still frowning.

"Good." She squares her shoulders. "Then that's where we'll begin."

"Begin what?" I ask. Knowing Carolina, it could be anything.

"Begin the investigation to find the missing device, of course. William would have wanted the thing found and safely out of harm's reach."

I shake my head. This is a bad idea.

Carolina raises an eyebrow at me and my brother. "What on Earth are you waiting for? Go change your clothes, both of you."

I don't have the energy to protest.

12:14. 26.09.1878. London.

Carolina raises her voice to be heard over the noise of midday London and the rattle of the carriage wheels beneath us. "Have either of you any idea what kind of offices we're going to?"

I shake my head.

"All I know," Bran says, "is that he worked for the Scientific Developments Department of the government."

"But what did he actually do for them? What kind of work did his job entail?" Carolina sits straight-backed in her seat. Beside her, a large hat with burgundy flowers waits to be reacquainted with her head.

"He never told me. It doesn't say anything about it in his journals either."

I gaze out the window, my stomach in knots "Have you read all of them?"

"Only most of them. You should read them too, both of you, in case I've missed something."

"A good idea," Carolina agrees and then we settle into a tense silence.

I don't know the name of the driver, but he takes us into an unfamiliar area and down a street lined with dull terrace houses and dim, dirty buildings. Some of them have wooden planks nailed over their doors and windows; others have no windows at all. Most have men on their doorsteps, beggars upon the cold, hard ground. I shiver involuntarily. I don't see any sights I'm familiar with. I get the feeling we're going to a place we would never have visited outside these circumstances.

The carriage alights in front of a three storey dusty-brick building. It would be unremarkable in any other district of London but it stands out here for its distinctively ordinary appearance. No boarded windows, no broken doors, no beggars. My hands won't lie still. This building is horribly out of place and I am terribly out of my comfort zone.

"Nice area," Carolina says with a sneer. She places her hat on her head and the driver opens her door to help her to the ground.

Branwell assists my getting out of the carriage, and we look up at the building at the same time. A number of steps lead to a wooden door and above it, set in stone, is the word Olympiae. Aside from that there are no outstanding features.

"How are we going to get in?" asks Bran.

Carolina rolls her eyes. "Through the front door. What other way would we enter? And do leave the talking to me; you know how you ramble, Branwell." She picks up the skirts of her dress and marches up the steps. My brother and I share a look of worry as our cousin rings the bell but we have little choice but to follow her.

It takes several moments for a man in a brown suit and a flat cap to swing the door open. He tilts his head and looks at us peculiarly. "Can I help you?"

Carolina's tone is swimming with self-importance. "We are the relatives of William Ravel, and we are here to collect his belongings. I trust you know about our visit." She's scarily like our Aunt Emily, her mother-in-law, right now. I wonder if she's emulating her.

"I ...," the man flounders, He thinks for a moment and then ushers us inside. "I'll get Mr. Norcross."

We're led into a wide lobby of pastel walls and Parisian furniture. Glass chandeliers hang above our heads and I almost forget why we're here, distracted by the light playing on the glass. But I can't forget my father's death for long. I sit on the edge of a gold and pink chaise, Branwell beside me, and Carolina opposite in a jewel-embellished chair. The wealth is staggering and overpowering in the way of people with newly acquired money, everything on display.

It takes several minutes for a man to stroll into the room. He's dressed in extravagant velvet and silk clothing and has a severe expression of distaste on his face, shrewd eyes beneath greying hair.

"Family of William's?" he asks.

Carolina stands and narrows her eyes at him. Bran whispers "Oh dear."

Our cousin answers haughtily. "We are here to collect any possessions he might have left here. Why you haven't already sent his belongings to his family home is a mystery. I'm trying very hard not to be insulted, Mr. Norcross."

"I am afraid we had everything removed."

"You did what? Take me to his office now." There will be no arguing with Carolina. She's definitely impersonating my aunt. "Since you've been so inconsiderate and discarded his possessions as if they were rubbish like a true imbecile, we would like to see where he worked." She clicks her fingers. " _Now_ , Mr. Norcross."

Norcross cannot complete the impossible task of finding an answer; he turns and bids us to follow him down a hallway papered in gold and cream. It smells of roses, a shade too sweet, and I spy them decaying on a windowsill. The man leads us to a shining gold elevator.

"Quickly now," he urges impatiently. "Get in."

Carolina strides into the lift with her nose in the air. I can't begin to wonder what she's gotten us into. Hesitantly, I step inside the metal box with my brother. The lift closes, lurches, and my stomach jumps into my throat. The only thing keeping me from panicking is Bran's hand on my elbow.

The journey is mercifully fast but I cannot get out of the thing quick enough.

"Oh, be brave, Bennet." Carolina rolls her eyes. "It's only an elevator."

Norcross watches us with disdain but he doesn't lower himself to speaking. Instead, he takes off down another cream and gold hallway, stopping at a dark wooden door.

"This was your father's room," he announces in a flat voice. "Take as long as you need. You know where the exit is." With that, he takes off along the hallway and out of sight.

"What a charming man," Carolina remarks sarcastically, her expression returning to normal, all traces of Aunt Emily gone. "Shall we go in, then?"

The door opens with a low creak and what meets us inside is quite the opposite of what I expected. I thought there'd be machinery and cluttered messes but the room is bare. All that's left is an empty bookshelf and a desk. Carolina heads straight for the desk. "There's nothing here," she proclaims after a while, disappointment ringing clear in her voice.

Bran says "Nothing in this office, perhaps..." I see a spark of the old mischief in his eyes. Whatever he is thinking, I am dead set against it.

"What are you thinking?" Carolina asks with intrigue.

"That we should see what else there is on this floor."

And what if someone should find us?" I demand, panic settling into my bones, my lungs, tightening.

"We'll tell them we got lost," Carolina answers, patting Bran on the shoulder, impressed.

"I don't like this," I protest even though I know it will fall on deaf ears. My brother and cousin have already opened the door. I follow them, as I always do.

Carolina releases the next door along and is greeted with the sight of a middle aged man sat at his desk, a perplexed expression working its way across his face. "Heavens!" she breathes. "I am terribly sorry, I was looking for someone else."

He stares at her but says nothing. The poor man's completely mystified.

"Sorry to trouble you," she adds, closing the door.

Bran suggests, "Perhaps we ought to be a bit more careful." He approaches another door. He puts his ear to the wood and pulls it away quickly. "This room is occupied."

"Not that one then," Carolina sighs. "How about ... this one?" She follows my brother's example and listens for sounds of life from the inside. "I can't hear a thing from in here," she whispers hopefully.

She turns the brass handle and miraculously, the room is empty. Hastily, we file inside and I press the door closed behind us. My heart is racing as I listen for anything from the corridor outside, be it footsteps or angry whispers to call the police.

"Look for anything that could concern the device," Carolina tells us.

Bran is already at the desk, searching through the drawers. I join him. "It would help if we knew what to look for," I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carolina rifling through a wooden cabinet. "

Bran is careful to keep his voice down. "We need something that could tell us where the Lux is."

"Look at this." Our cousin waves us over to join her by the cabinet. " _'_ Olympiae: For the betterment and progression of humanity'. Is that the thing you saw on the scroll?"

"Yes." He nods. "Do you have any idea what it means?"

"Not a clue," Carolina states cheerily. She tucks the sheet of paper into a hidden pocket in her dress.

Bran rummages keenly through the same drawer, producing a sheet of blue paper. "Blueprints," he says wonderingly. His fingers sift through the contents with an edge of desperation and remove two more blueprints from the cabinet.

"We should be going," I urge them. I'm conscious that the more time we spend here the more likely we are to be caught in the act of not only trespassing but now theft. "Do you think those will be of any help?"

"Well, it's a start." Carolina disappears around the wooden edge of the door.

"For heaven's sake!" I hiss. "She's not only going to get herself killed but us as well."

Bran takes me by the arm as we quickly cross the room.

I half expect our cousin to come running back inside, screaming at us to hide ourselves, but she only leans her head around the door and waves us out. The building is silent, and even though we have to walk along several corridors to exit, we don't come across a single soul. Not even the man in the brown suit and the flat cap is there to escort us out. It's all very odd and discomfiting.

"Does it not seem as if most of their employees are absent, to you?" asks Carolina when we're safely inside the carriage.

"Maybe it's a small company," I offer.

"With that many rooms?" Carolina shakes her head, a wry smile transforming her lips. "Not likely. Now that they have that thing of your father's they don't need to stay in business."

"What are you saying?"

"That their business was a ruse—something to convince your father to give them that device."

"It's called the Lux." Bran sounds short tempered. I wonder what has changed to transform the enthusiasm he felt inside of the building to this.

I'm not convinced Carolina's right. "That seems an awful lot of trouble to go to for something so small. My father was hardly a master inventor."

"Maybe." She examines the buttons on her gloves. "But it's an idea. We'll find out what happened to William, don't you worry."

"I think," Bran says in a careful tone, "that whatever did happen to him had something to do with Olympiae, whatever that even means."

"I think you're right," Carolina agrees. "Whatever it does mean, we'll uncover what happened to your father. That is for sure."

***

Branwell

12:28. 27.09.1878. London.

I hear Carolina coming down the corridor minutes before she enters the room, her heeled boots clicking with each step. I resist the urge to bolt through a side door. Benny, across from me with a copy of _Wuthering Heights_ open on her lap and a scowl on her face, looks up when Carolina enters the room.

"Look lively, Branwell," Carolina chastises and a number of retorts flash through my mind. I've always had a sort of sibling rivalry with my cousin. Since childhood, each time we've seen each other, there's always been a teasing, competitive nature to our relationship. "I might just have solved the mystery."

"You mean _Jeremy_ might just have solved the mystery," I fire back.

"Oh, do be quiet. Though, you're right. I've received a letter from my husband giving us a fair bit of information we weren't aware of."

"Like what?" Benny asks, placing a strip of painted suede between the pages to mark her place—a birthday present from our valet that she always uses.

"You know I wrote to him last night." Carolina takes a seat in the chair in front of the fire. Florence bustles about her, ensuring she has tea and sandwiches. My cousin seems to preen at the attention, sitting straighter and watching Florence with a favourable eye. "He did a great deal of digging, and has come back with the name The Olympiae Club."

"Didn't we already know that?" Bennet sighs.

"Yes, but now we know what kind of men they are."

I lean forward in my seat. "And what kind of men are they? What do they do?"

Carolina flattens a piece of paper on her knees. "Jeremy says they are a very wealthy organisation—a secret society for all intents and purposes. It's an elitist group; only a select few are permitted admission, and those who do have to meet extensive criteria."

"Criteria such as what?"

"Jeremy doesn't say. I doubt he knows, but we'll find out. I'm quite sure this is the beginning of a journey of discovery."

"A dangerous, fretful journey," Benny mutters under her breath.

***

Bennet

23:43. 28.09.1878. London.

I thought I would feel different returning to the Olympiae building with Joel among us—safer perhaps, less likely to run into bodily harm—but somehow I find myself more nervous than the first time we visited The Olympiae Club. But that could be because this time I'm aware of the club and the things they stand for. Or maybe it's the starless night pressing on all sides of the carriage, threatening and unknowable, that makes my heart race. Or my anxiety for Joel's safety, along with my brother's and Carolina's.

Bran puts his hand in mine, and at first I think it's to reassure me but then I feel the slight tremor in his fingers and I realise he's drawing strength from me. I sit a little taller and adopt a confident outward appearance. I almost feel better for a moment, until we halt at the side of the Olympiae building. Even in the darkness I recognise it; angular and sharp. Entirely deserted if the unlit rooms are anything to go by.

"How are we going to get in?" I ask Bran as we exit the carriage.

"Don't you worry about that," Carolina says with a secretive smile. "I'm more than capable of breaking a simple lock."

I begin to ask why she would ever know how to do such a thing but I decide I'd rather not know. Bran gives her a mystified look but says nothing, watching as Joel slips to the ground beside us and ties the horses' reins to a pipe on the wall.

"I hope that will hold them," he worries with a backward glance at the dark animals as they sigh and huff at each other.

With a smile, I say, "So do I."

"Alright, enough chatter—all of you in," Carolina orders as quietly as her loud persona will allow. I'm stunned to see she's already gained access to the building via a side door.

Joel bends down to whisper, "Your cousin certainly doesn't hang about, does she?" The contrast of the cold night air and the warmth of his breath coerce a shudder from my spine.

I head after my brother and cousin. "She's reckless."

"And yet efficient." Joel holds the door open for me and closes it safely behind us. A white light flares up in Bran's hand, illuminating the long corridor before us. Strangely enough the walls are of stone, not the pristine gold and cream colour scheme of the rooms we saw before. It's also excruciatingly cold, and to improve matters, damp.

"Miss Ravel," Joel says quietly and drapes his blazer over my shoulders. "It's awfully cold in here."

"Bennet," I correct automatically, my face warming. "And thank you, Joel. You're very kind."

"You don't have to thank me." He smiles and falls silent, walking alongside me, his broad frame casting deep shadows on either side of him.

"Any ideas about where we're going?" Bran asks Carolina who's storming ahead with fierce determination.

"Onwards."

Bran's voice drips with sarcasm. "My apologies—I meant to enquire if you had any _worthwhile_ ideas about where we're going. I'll assume not."

"Oh, do shut up, Branwell. Do you have any suggestions as to how we should proceed?" Bran is silent. Carolina is smug. "I thought not. When we find a door, we will go through it. Until then—onwards."
We walk for what feels like five minutes though it could be any length of time, until the light in Bran's hand distorts in its arc and we discover a door set in the brick wall. Carolina waits for the rest of us to join her at the doorway—it's impossible to keep up with her manic speed—and then she takes Joel by the arm and pushes him through the door with all her slight weight before any of us can react. My stomach somersaults. A panicked sound falls from my lips and I reach out as if to pull him back but Joel is already through the door. I let my disgust show on my face as I spin to face my cousin.

Guiltless, she says, "He's here for our protection, is he not?"

Anger bubbles up in me as I march through the door. "Anything could happen to him!"

"You didn't have to throw him to the dogs like that," Bran agrees.

"It's empty," Joel assures me, turning back. "No harm done."

"And if there had been someone here, what would you have done?" I'm aware of my voice rising.

"I'd have fought them valiantly," he says light-heartedly. "You need not worry about me, Miss—Bennet. I can take care of myself."

My anger fades into embarrassment. I duck my head. "You're right. Shall we go on?" I point down the corridor, this one in the lavish décor I had expected. White-painted wood panels, doors of engraved gold metal, each with an ascending number. Empty, the whole way down, but my heart still beats hard as I wait for us to be caught.

"Those aren't ... genuine gold are they?" Bran asks.

Carolina looks sceptical. "I doubt it. That would be an absurd waste of money."

"You did say The Olympiae Club was wealthy," I point out, looking between Carolina's unravelling blonde curls, my brother's flush—foolishly excited—face, and Joel's straight shoulders as he stands to attention, watchful. I don't want to lose any of them. I want to leave—but my father's inventions may be here and I won't ignore his final wish. "Which door?"

Carolina answers, in charge of us yet again, "All of them. Branwell, Bennet you investigate the doors on the left. Dashing young coachman, you can help me search those on the right."

Joel isn't entirely sure what to do with himself but he recovers quickly. I realise I am staring at him, memorising his rough-hewn features as if I will never see his face again, and I tear my eyes away as he speaks. "What are we looking for?"

"Two devices," Bran tells him. "At the very least, something telling us their whereabouts or capabilities. I thought we'd found a blueprint of one of them, but that turned out to something else entirely."

"What was it?"

"It's not important."

I look at Bran curiously. He's fidgeting, a sure sign he feels uncomfortable.

"Well. It was some kind of a ... a ... device intended for ..."

"Intimate exploits?" Joel guesses and Bran nods, blushing to his ears.

"I think Benny and I should search the room now," he says, already moving.

Joel is smiling. "Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but how are we meant to see? All the rooms are dark."

"Oh," Bran breathes. "I brought two of these." He gives Joel an identical light to the one in his hand—a small tube made entirely of gold glass, giving off white light—but Carolina intercepts him and takes it for herself.

"Thank you, Branwell," she says sharply before disappearing into the first room on the right, calling for Joel to come after her.

He hesitantly follows her, and my brother and I enter the first room on the left.

As soon as we step inside, it becomes obvious that these rooms are for people higher up in the business than that of my father. Unlike the sparse, lifeless rooms of the second floor, this room is furnished lavishly. Velvet curtains hang from a window, a handful of chairs, sofas, and chaises longues are arranged around a grand fireplace, and in front of the window sits a claw-footed desk. Picture frames are nailed to the walls—of a _family_. And out of everything I have seen, this is the thing that shocks me the most.

I'd begun to think of the people who worked here as cruel, calculating men. Men who would poison somebody to get their own way. Men who would stop at nothing for power. I hadn't expected them to be real men with families of their own.

All at once the reality that my father is dead, _truly_ dead, never coming back, hits me—and I miss him. I miss him _so much_. I lean against the doorframe and swallow down tears. I will not cry in a strange building. I will not cry at all.

"Bennet?" The gentle voice makes me jump out of my skin. I turn to see Joel hovering in the corridor as Carolina moves onto the next room. "Are you alright?"

"I'm not sure," I answer honestly.

His hand hovers over my shoulder, too cautious to touch me, but the gesture itself is comforting.

"I think I need to ... soldier on and finish this." I smile, hoping it looks normal. Joel sees right through the veil I pulled over my grief, and this time his hand finishes its path to my shoulder; it's a fleeting and hesitant touch but enough to help me gather the remnants of my composure.

He looks me in the eye. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

He watches me for a long second, and then with a bow of his head, he hurries back to his side of the corridor. I turn back to the room I'm meant to be ransacking.

Bran has his nose buried in a stack of papers so I head towards the left of the room and a door that could lead into a side room—or a useless coatroom—and I urge the wooden door open. Moonlight, filtering through a wide window, is enough for me to see that this is a bedroom. With no lamp lit, the colours are washed out in the dimness but I sense everything would be rich reds and opulent purples in the daylight. Curtains are pulled shut around a bed opposite me.

I pull myself together and rummage through a console table. My heart races faster when I find a handful of papers, but when I hold them up to the moonlight, there's nothing about the Lux or any other invention here. My eyes flit to the door every other second, expecting men with guns and knives to charge into the room.

I try to think. If I were someone with something to hide, where would I put it? The answer comes to me right away—I would hide it under my bed, in the gap between the frame and the mattress.

I yank one of the curtains around its metal frame, meaning to search under the pillows and the mattress, but the sight that meets me on the bed makes my heart stop beating and my breathing take off in its own direction.

I stare, unable to rip my eyes away. Before I realise what's happening, a scream is forcing its way out of my mouth and the carpet is coming up to meet my face.

***

Branwell

01:24. 29.09.1878. London.

As soon as I hear the scream, as soon as my mind has processed that it's my sister, I'm running.

I find Benny collapsed on the floor in an adjoining room, unconscious but breathing. I pull her against me and hold her close, murmuring that everything will be alright.

Carolina and Joel burst into the room moments later, and my cousin lets out a shrill noise. I think that she must assume Benny has died but then she whispers "Who is he?"

"Who?" My voice comes out rough and hoarse.

"There's a ... there's ..." Carolina falters.

"There's a dead man, Sir," Joel finishes for her. "On the bed. I suspect that's what made Miss Ravel scream." He kneels beside me and looks closely at Bennet, the line of his square jaw tense.

"We should go." I choke on the words. "She needs a doctor."

"It's shock," Carolina says, recovering her wits. "She just needs rest to overcome it. As do I for that matter."

I'm suddenly overcome with exhaustion. I suppose not sleeping will do that to you. "We're leaving right this minute."

Joel nods his agreement. "I fear we've stumbled into something far beyond us."

"I think you may be right," Carolina whispers. "Who on Earth could have killed this man?"

I stand, supporting Benny against my body, and I'm grateful when Joel helps. And then I see the true horror of the scene. A man is strewn across the bed, covered in dark liquid—blood, I realise. His throat and both his wrists look to have been cut, and his eyes are open and staring. I can't look any longer.

Joel tenses. "Footsteps," he murmurs.

Carolina grabs my shoulders. "Where did you leave the light?"

I point to the adjoining room. She dashes into the main room and when she comes back, she's more scared than I've ever seen her. "Get in the bathroom," she orders, throwing a hand at the open door in the corner. Once we're all packed inside the tiny square room, with Benny in my arms, Carolina douses both lights. We wait.

Outside, the carpet muffles the footsteps of men but their voices are clearly audible.

"–girl's scream," someone says.

"You're imagining it" another man replies. "There's been nobody down here in days. Now the Olympiae's headed out, this place is deserted." His voice is lightly accented, American. "I bet it came from outside. The women around here ... they're, shall we say—freer than most?"

The other laughs. "What do you think happened to this guy?"

"Only God knows. I bet he upset someone in the higher sectors."

"I wouldn't like to piss _them_ off."

"Then do your job. And keep quiet about that girl you heard screaming. If the higher sectors thought we weren't securing this place correctly..."

"I won't say a word."

"Good lad," the American praises. The voices grow increasingly muffled until we can't hear them anymore. I release my breath and slump in relief, clutching my sister close.

The light blazes up in Carolina's hand, filling the bathroom with a soft, white light.

"I'll take your sister," Joel says to me. His face is set in hard lines and his eyes are fiercer than I've seen them. He looks formidable. "It'll be faster that way, and I'm ..." He shoots me a sheepish grin.

"Stronger than me?" I offer. "It's no secret, Joel."

Carolina has turned white. "That man ... out there."

"It's best not to think about it," Joel advises and for a single moment he's the person holding us together. I shift Benny so that Joel can take her, and he sweeps her into his arms and holds her securely to his chest.

"Ready?" I ask Carolina. She looks ill, so I take her elbow as we tiptoe out of the bathroom. When we're once again in the stone corridor, and the golden doors are behind us, we run like mad. Our footsteps bounce off the walls. The light from the glass gripped like a vice in Carolina's hand bounces off the walls, making strange shapes in our path.

I'm struggling to breathe by the time we reach the heavy door at the end of the corridor. Joel stops so that I can throw it open and night air rushes in around us; I gulp it down. The cold is welcome against my skin and my hair, and it serves to once again put everything into absolute clarity.

Joel swears, seeing the horses still tethered to the wall. "I'm sorry," he says to my unconscious sister, and then to Carolina. "I was so certain they'd have gone off and we'd have to run back to the house."

He opens the carriage door, somehow still holding my sister, and then lays her gently across one of the benches. As soon as she is safely in the carriage, he sprints to free the horses' reigns and then he's in the driver's seat before I've taken my next breath.

I urge Carolina forward and help her into the carriage as quickly as she will go. Sat, she looks around for a startled moment, and raises a hand to her hair. "I felt sure I was wearing a hat."

I don't know how to reply. Before I have even closed the door, we're off and flying through the night.

***

Bennet

05:14. 29.09.1878. London

It's early morning when I wake, and the sun hasn't risen yet. One of the lighting gadgets my brother took to the Olympiae building is sat on my bedside table, casting a glow over the familiar shapes of my belongings.

The warmth of my bed almost lures me back to sleep, until my eyes fall upon the chair across my room and the man sleeping in it. A smile stretches over my face as I watch Joel sleep. His body is hunched forward, too big for the small wicker chair. He looks tranquil and handsome and cold. Moving quietly, I slide out of bed and snag a wool blanket from the bed frame, settling it around Joel's shoulders. He stirs but doesn't wake so I return to my bed and continue to watch him.

Joel has been a constant presence in my life since he was employed as an assistant to Edward when I was twelve. Over the four years since, he's become increasingly vital to our household and increasingly important to me. There was a point when, two years ago, he almost left our home and went to work for a family in Shropshire, but our valet passed away and Joel was offered his job. I wonder what our lives would be like now if he'd left. I wonder what I'd be like had I not had Joel as a friend.

I was a timid, hopeless thing at thirteen. I wouldn't speak to a soul except my brother and I would hide in the broom cupboard whenever we had visitors. Joel found me there one evening while my father entertained our guests—by which I mean bored them with descriptions of his latest marvel—and with gentle encouragement Joel coaxed me out out the cupboard. He told me I was capable of conquering anything in the world. I wonder if he still thinks that or if after tonight, when I fainted, he thinks I'm a silly, hopeless girl.

He murmurs as he wakes and his eyes find mine the minute they open. He jumps out of the chair and is beside me in a second.

"Bennet," he says breathlessly. "I thought you were sleeping."

"I was until a moment ago," I lie.

He hesitates before perching on the edge of my bed. "Are you alright? After you fainted, I worried you wouldn't wake up again."

I smile. "I'm fine. And I'm quite awake now."

"I can see that. I mean—yes. Very good. I'm relieved." He's alive with nervous energy.

"I truly am okay, Joel. You don't need to worry." Even if his worrying fills me with warmth.

"I'm very glad." His eyes are bright but the skin beneath them shadowed.

"Joel, how long have you been sat in that chair? Have you been to bed tonight?"

He waves a hand. "I can survive on little sleep."

I raise an eyebrow. "Go to bed. You must be tired."

"Not particularly."

"I can tell you're lying." I lay a hand on his arm and he jolts. "I'm sorry," I rush to apologise, retracting my hand. "I shouldn't have—you'd benefit from rest is all I meant."

"You don't need to apologise, Miss Ravel—"

A dagger goes through my heart. "Bennet," I correct quietly.

"—but you are right. And I will return to my room. I'm glad you're alright."

He goes for the door and I watch him leave, feeling as if I messed up everything.

***

Branwell

20:18. 29.09.1878. London.

I'm not aware Carolina has left until Joel comes thundering down the stairs to my room. His short hair is dark with sweat, his face red.

"What's happened?" I ask, dropping the book I was reading and striding over to him.

"A few minutes ago a carriage approached the house. It stopped just outside the gates, which was weird, so I went to the doorway to investigate. A gentleman came running up to the house, as fast as anything you could imagine, and handed me this." Joel holds out a piece of thick ivory paper. "He disappeared before I had a chance to react. I didn't recognise him, Sir."

I shake my head. "Joel, how many times do we have to tell you—"

"It's not important," he says sharply. Now I definitely know that something's wrong—Joel rarely raises his voice, and it's an even rarer that he sounds unsettled. "I don't make a habit of reading your messages but with all the strangeness happening this week ... well, I took it upon myself to ensure the message was not a threat or—"

"Joel." I stop his rambling and take the paper from him. "It's alright." The wax seal has been broken but it's clearly embossed with The Olympiae Club's emblem. The lion and majestic bird are even more remarkable in wax than in ink. The paper slides through my fingers when I have read the flourish of words, my heart in my throat.

Branwell Ravel,

Such a pity we were unable to meet under more pleasant circumstances, but I have with me your cousin, and, as charming as she is, I'm quite sure you'll want her back with you in perfect condition. Shall we have an exchange of sorts? Lady Isham's life for the Lux?

I trust I will see you very soon,

Adam Morelock.

My voice comes out hard enough to shatter a diamond. "Who is he—this Morelock? Have you heard of him?"

"I'm afraid so, Sir. He's quite the influential man in ... questionable areas of London."

"Is he capable of harming my cousin?"

"I believe so."

"And this address." I point to the paper where an address has been helpfully written below the threat. "Do you know where it is?"

Joel is tense enough to break. "I'm vaguely familiar with the area."

I nod. Bennet can't come with me tonight—I can't drag her into danger too—but I know Joel will accompany me. "Could you ready our carriage? And—would you ask Eddie to join us? I seem to remember he's particularly handy with his fists."

"Of course." He takes the stairs two at a time.

"Joel," I say, halting him. "I didn't ask, and I really shouldn't have presumed. Would you come with me, to rescue Carolina?"

He's dead serious when he replies, "You don't have to ask, Branwell. I am at your service."

"Thank you." I manage a grateful smile, and as he hurries up the stairs, I feel under the mattress of my bed for the knife and a gun-like device that sit waiting for such situations. My father's journals have made me prepared—or paranoid—whichever word fits. I slip the knife under the waistband of my trousers and hide the hilt with my shirt. I find a coat—a thick waist-length thing—and hide the gun in a pocket in case of dire emergencies. It won't kill a person but it will fire an electric shock that can temporarily incapacitate someone.

I can't believe I'm thinking such things, but ... I honestly can't believe something like this would happen to Carolina either. It could all be a ruse, of course, but if one thing is to come out of tonight I've discovered one thing—the Olympiae Club don't have the Lux. This should be a good thing, but if they haven't taken it ... who have?

I shake off the questions; I don't have time. I pull on a pair of boots and race up the stairs to meet Joel and Eddie. Between us, we scale the house from top to bottom, hoping that Carolina is somewhere inside, safe, but Eddie points out that her carriage has disappeared.

Within fifteen minutes, we're on our way, the carriage flying over the ground faster than I thought possible. Eddie sits opposite me, glaring out of the window. I thought he was angry at me for asking him to come, but Joel told me that he's furious at the idea of someone hurting Carolina. He's either incredibly loyal to our family or hopelessly in love with her.

I've always thought Joel and Eddie looked like brothers. They share a serious countenance, and in looks they're similar if not identical. Joel has rough, handsome features and dormant power in his body; my father used to joke that he could crush a person with his arm muscles alone. He has the sort of brawn someone like me could only wish to build, even with years of lugging heavy materials into the attic for my father. Eddie is different, more slender of face and body but every bit as dangerous.

"Do you know why Carolina would go to this place?" Eddie asks, startling me out of my thoughts.

I sigh. "She must have had a reason, but I thought she would have come to us before acting."

"I thought that too. She's always seemed so sensible to me—not the kind of person to rush into a place without thinking first."

_Well_. He doesn't quite have the measure of her yet. I wonder where this serious, sensible version of Carolina came from—his imagination, perhaps. "She's reckless. Her father thought being married would take that out of her, but unfortunately for him she found a kindred spirit in Jeremy. He's almost as bad as she is."

"I've never met him," Eddie says, "but I've only heard good things about the man."

I glance past the window to the dark outside. "I wish we had time to send him a note."

"But we have no guarantee that your cousin is actually where we're going, or in fact in any danger at all. She could have gone out for a night drive. Men like these ... they'll use any bit of knowledge to their advantage."

"You're right." He's not—it's the longest of long shots, and my cousin is most definitely in mortal peril because of her own stupidity.

"And Miss Ravel ... does she know?"

I glance out the window, guilt rising in me. "No."

"Safer for her not to know—is this the place?"

The carriage stops beside the gates of a dark house. It looks like something from the pages of an _Edgar Allan Poe_ novel. Eddie and I climb out of the carriage; we find Joel trying to persuade the horses to stay where they are with nothing but will and words.

"I've nothing to keep them here," he says, rubbing his temple. "If the worst comes to the worst, I'll carry Carolina home."

My eyes drift back to the house. "We'll solve that problem later. How do we get in?" I ask, walking up to the high gates. On either side of the twisting metal is a wall twice my height. This house was clearly designed for privacy.

As soon as I have spoken the words the gates sweep open, beckoning us inside.

"How is that possible?" Eddie asks, his face paling as he watches the gates move by themselves.

"Anything is possible," I mutter and start forward.

Nobody ventures out to greet us so the three of us walk up the stone steps and through the unlocked door. As soon as I step a foot across the threshold, the gates swing shut.

"I have the distinct feeling that getting out is going to be a hundred times harder than getting in," Joel says. I hate to agree with him.

When we enter the house we find it completely dark. If I didn't know better I'd think no one was here. I take out one of the _Illuminum_ devices my father invented and light fills the hallway we're stood in. Beside me is a coatrack, metal and spindly, and for a brief moment I consider how wonderfully it would work as a weapon before I note a number of walking sticks—one of which is made entirely of metal. Without really thinking about it, it's in my hand and I'm striding forward and into the seemingly lonely house.

Joel and Eddie are alert at my sides, quietly moving through the lower floor. Nothing. We venture upstairs only to find the second floor as empty as the first.

"This isn't right," Joel whispers.

Eddie asks, "Is there a basement? There's always a basement in these sorts of houses, isn't there?"

I look at Joel and he shrugs. "It's the best idea we have."

We discover a door that conceals a set of descending stone steps in the kitchen, and an unspoken message sends us down them, Joel first, me in the middle, and Eddie at the rear. I grip the metal walking stick and ready myself to use it. I've never used a weapon before; the thought of it makes me nauseated.

The basement is dark, but _The Illuminum_ allows us to see that it runs below the entire house. In the very far corner, under a spot of light, is a chair. Tied to it and half in shadows is Carolina. I can't tell if she's awake or unconscious from this distance but at least she's here. I only pray we're not too late; that she still lives.

The light is wrenched from my hand without warning, the metal edge of the cylinder cutting open my palm. I grit my teeth against the bite of pain and raise the walking stick in my other, suddenly unsteady, hand.

"I would not if I were you, Branwell," says a man, amusement curled around his words.

Joel tenses beside me, waiting to strike.

"How do you know me?" I ask through gritted teeth. I need to cling to my anger—otherwise I will dissolve into fear and uselessness. My cousin needs me. I can't tremble, can't crumple.

"I know all about your family. I was a good friend of your father's." The light throws disturbing shadows from the man's face. He smiles, slow and self-satisfied and I know in an instant that this is the man responsible for my father's death. Vomit rises in my throat. Whether he poisoned him with his own hand or made someone else do it, he killed my father. "You did very well bringing me the Lux," he continues. "I hadn't known if you would or if you'd try to trick me."

"What—" Eddie begins but I silence with a hand on his elbow. He's shaking as much as I am, though I suspect with anger.

This man, this Adam Morelock, doesn't know what the Lux looks like. He thinks he has it in his hand instead of a simple light.

"I was not given much of a choice," I say, and the tremor in my voice makes it all the more convincing. "And now you have what you want. So we will be taking Carolina."

Morelock laughs. "Highly unlikely. Tell me, how did the Lady know of this place?"

I wish I knew. "She read about it in my father's journal," I reply, my heart speeding as I scramble to concoct a lie.

"Ah. Those dreaded books." He laughs pleasantly, as if he's chatting with old friends. "I should have known you'd have them when my men couldn't turn them up."

Anger burns in me. I speak without thinking. "Did you kill him?"

"Goodness, no. That request came from higher up."

"Higher up?" Eddie's voice is hard—volatile. "You're not the leader of this group then? What _are_ you—a servant?"

Morelock's eyes narrow dangerously at Eddie, but he addresses _me_. "I'd keep your _staff_ in line if I were you, Branwell."

I snap my jaw shut on a retort. We weren't meant to _speak_ to this man; we were supposed to save Carolina and abscond as fast as our legs could carry us. But here he is, attempting to make polite conversation. "What do you want?" I seethe. If I thought I could run across the room and reach Carolina before he caught me, I would. But I'm out of options and ideas.

"Right now?" He pauses to consider the question. "To do this."

A gold glint in his hand is the only warning before Morelock shoots Joel. Joel falls with an anguished cry and a meaty thud. I want to kneel beside him and see that the shot is not fatal but I can't. Eddie will take care of Joel. Energy buzzes through me—anger, adrenaline, urgency.

My hand moves as if it has its own brain, its own will, and my body follows just as quickly. The cane in my fist bashes Morelock's head before he has a chance to process it, caught up as he is in his self-satisfaction over having hurt one of my companions. He stumbles backwards, dizzy. I lash out again, this time in tentative control of my movement and panicky, breathing short. Morelock's hand catches the end of the stick; my body strains as he pulls it away from me. For a second I wonder where he's put the light he thinks is the Lux, but then I realise it's in his other hand and he has thrown his gun to the floor.

He has thrown his gun to the floor.

Eddie is faster than I am, darting for the golden gun at the same time Morelock launches himself across the floor towards it. I manage to wrangle the walking stick back to my hand while his attention is diverted, and with a trembling hand strike Morelock on his shoulder, giving Eddie the chance to take hold of the gun. Morelock changes course, fury etched on his lean face as he dives toward me, a hand looking to curl around my throat—but he comes face to face with a golden barrel before he gets the chance.

Between Eddie and myself, we drive Morelock into a corner, and I pick up _The Illuminum_ as we go. If Morelock is planning anything, the dark will only aid him in injuring us. He backs away slowly until his body hits the wall, and then he laughs; a sharp, chilling thing that goes straight through me.

My eyes scream as blinding light blurs out the space. All I can see now is white.

I grasp for the wall, clutching to stay upright. Why am I unsteady on my feet? Why have my hands stopped trembling? Why am I sliding down the wall? I feel disconnected from my body, my mind apart from it until I hit the floor and the impact jars me back to myself. I'm hurt—I've been hurt—shot? A searing pain charges through my shoulder and all the way down my arm and I scream.

I clutch my shoulder, still unable to see through the paralysing white light. My hands come away wet. I'm bleeding.

My head fogs again, stuffed full of cotton wool instead of thoughts and reasoning.

The white light fades to its original dimness and someone drops to my side. I don't attempt to fight them off. The pain has my entire attention. There's a ripping sound and then the agony and heat in my shoulder spike and I cry out again.

"Am I dying?" I moan to no one in particular.

"Not if I can help it," replies Eddie. I lean towards his voice but the pressure of his hands vanishes and I slump to the ground. I lay my head back against the stone and forget all about him. In the back of my consciousness I can hear a struggle and shouting. And then I hear a feminine scream that cuts through every slow thought.

_Benny_ , I think. _That's my sister!_ I push myself as hard as I can off of the floor and get my knees underneath me. For a second I think I will be able to stand but I greet the ground face first. The floor is wet. Too wet for damp, some part of my brain infers, and I decide that the basement must have a leak because there's a pool of water under my body.

Slowly and bit by bit, the room comes into focus. It's still difficult to see anything but there's an area of light at the far side of the basement. Joel is on his feet, grappling with Morelock while Eddie attempts to free Carolina. _Carolina_. That's whose scream I heard. My sister is at home, safe, but Carolina is here, very much in danger.

Eddie helps Carolina out of her bindings, holding onto the rope. He leads her across the floor, towards me and the steps to safety. Behind him Morelock and Joel are a blur of action. My eyes alternate between in-focus and out-of-focus, most things just colours and shapes, but I can tell that Carolina is getting closer to me.

"Branwell!" she whispers, falling beside me. "Oh God, Bran!"

I can't think of a single thing to say so I just watch the menagerie of colour and shape. My breath collects in my throat as the dark form of Morelock forces Joel's body into the brick wall. Joel sinks down it, lying still at the bottom.

"He's lost a lot of blood," Eddie is saying to Carolina while the darkness that is Morelock slinks across the room. The metal cane I had earlier is in his hand—for a split second, the man is in incredible focus but then he's a shadow shifting through the dimness again. His shadow lashes out at Eddie with such a force that it knocks him over. I close my eyes. I can't watch any more. I focus, once again, on the pain—the curse that is surging through my body is enough to take the rest of the basement, the rest of the world, away.

We're dead, I know. Morelock will not stop with Eddie and Joel. He has what he thinks is the Lux now; what use are we to him?

A strangled sound rips through the room, followed by a gasp, and I drag my eyes open. Behind Carolina—who somehow has her hands on the gun-like device from my coat pocket—is Morelock. He's struggling, grasping with his hands at a rope around his neck. A rope is strangling him! Muddy hope moves through me.

Morelock's struggling increases and then all at once he is still. His body drops to the ground.

"Go," a voice cuts through the sudden silence. It's not Morelock; it's distantly familiar and it's filled with fury and pain and passion. Where Morelock formerly stood is a man dressed in blurs of brown. His hair is golden and lit up by lantern light. Where did the light come from?

"Go, Carolina. For God's sake, get out of here!"

"But ..." she feebly replies. Her voice catches. I can't make out her features; she's just a mass of brilliant blue in my narrowing vision. Midnight blue, Bennet would call it. For a second Carolina stands frozen and then, faster than my eyes can track the movement, blue meets brown and she's crying great echoing sobs. "I didn't think—you'd be—able to find me. I thought you—you wouldn't know. I thought—I thought you wouldn't come."

"Oh, Cara," the man replies. His voice is thick with tears. I know him suddenly, but I can't find his name. "I will always come for you. Always."

The colours are blurring into one, much like my thoughts. The world is all movement and darkness and light and then my eyes slide shut again.

***

Bennet

23:44. 29.09.1878. London.

Weight presses on my chest, bending bones and lungs within, and I can't breathe. Nobody can tell me how long my brother, Carolina, her driver, Joel, and Eddie have been gone. I've been pacing, frantically coming up with options for where they may have gone, snapping at my only friends for no real reason, for over an hour. Edward, Eddie's father, has taken one of the horses out to see if any of our neighbours or friends have seen them, but I don't expect him to turn anything up. Whatever it is that has sent them out of the house is most likely dangerous and completely rash. I'd be furious if I weren't so worried.

Florence paces the halls, murmuring a prayer in Spanish under her breath, and Nancy is gripping her rosary beads. I stand in the main doorway despite the many protests for me to come back inside. I'm of half a mind to go racing out into the night myself, but only the fact that Bran and Carolina and Joel could come back while I'm gone keeps me here.

After a while, Edward returns with no news of their whereabouts as I expected, but he did find out that our closest neighbours noticed Carolina's carriage travelling in the direction of the city at around six this evening. She's been gone almost _six hours_ and we have no way of knowing where she is or if she's safe. My guess is the men went out after her in some gallant attempt at a rescue.

I wish I knew where they had gone so we could send help.

I wish they'd bothered to tell me.

Why would they do something so dangerous? My brother I can fully understand—he has a thoughtless, questioning nature—but _Joel_? I had thought he possessed _some_ sense. I can almost forgive Eddie for leaving; he's a man who can handle any kind of situation. I can _almost_ forgive him. But Carolina! I cannot string enough words together to form a coherent thought about Carolina.

I'm so worried it stabs at my heart and rations my breath.

We wait. After ten minutes, the entire household is stood with me on the front steps.

"Can you hear that?" Edward asks, descending the steps. "Carriage wheels, I swear."

"I don't hear owt," Nancy replies, squinting into the night.

I want to see something, hear something, anything to give me hope that Edward is right—but my heart is convinced my friends and family are gone for good. Nevertheless, Edward rushes off down the driveway, and when Nancy and the others follow him I go after them. My feet pound against the gravel harder than I've run in my life and only now do I realise how desperate I am for Edward to have heard correctly. I need there to be a carriage coming up the road with my brother, cousin, and our friends in it.

What actually meets us outside the gates gives me pause. There isn't one carriage rattling up the stretch of road, but three. I pray to God that Bran is inside one of them. When they ride past our gateway, I don't recognise any of the coachmen; it only serves to heighten my anxiety. But then the first carriage doors open and Carolina comes rushing towards me. Bruised and dishevelled but _alive_. She embraces me tightly; I cling to her dress.

"Branwell is hurt," she whispers and my heart falls out of my chest.

I pull back, scanning the alighted carriages, the men pouring out into our courtyard. "Where is he? _Where is my brother?"_ I push my way to the carriages where Edward is aiding his son. Eddie's white shirt is dotted with a large amount of red and my head spins. I force myself forward on unsteady legs, the world swaying.

"Where is he?" I demand of nobody and everybody. "Where is my brother?"

Arms catch me and hold me back. I fight against them, my arms straining and my legs kicking. "He's going to be alright," says the person who caught me.

The words knock the breath out of me. I stare up at hazel eyes and golden hair, not understanding. "Jeremy ..." I shake my head but it doesn't help clear it. "What are you doing here?"

"Come on, Benny," he says wearily. "Carolina and I will take you inside."

Dizziness comes over me so fast. "No, I ... I need to stay with Bran. Bran needs me. Where is he?" I squirm my way out of his grip, rushing towards the carriages where my brother is surely being kept away from me. Why are they keeping him from me?

"Bennet," Carolina cries but I don't know why she's saying it in that tone. I only want to see my brother.

And there he is, held up by Francis and a stranger. Why is there a stranger holding my brother? He should be with me. _I am his sister!_ Jeremy's arms surround me again, pinning my own arms to my sides, attempting to pull me away—but I plant my feet. I'm unmoving. I am a bronze statue.

I stare at my brother, his pale face, the blood soaked through his shirt and dripping to the ground. Jeremy attempts to pull me away again but I faint before he can guide my feet towards the house.

08:52. 30.09.1878. London.

By the time I wake, Jeremy and Carolina have taken over everything in the house and insist that I wash and dress myself and eat breakfast before I see my brother. If it wasn't for Jeremy's anxious gaze following me and the cuts on Carolina's face, I might have ignored their wishes—but I can't refuse them when they look so concerned. It doesn't stop me plotting the quickest route to my brother, though.

"There was a man who contacted Bran," Jeremy tells us as he pours himself a cup of strong-looking tea. "He gave him a ransom—the Lux in exchange for Carolina's life." He sets the teapot down a little too hard. "Thankfully he was unaware that Bran wasn't in possession of it, and when he showed up with that strange Illuminum device, Morelock assumed that was the Lux at work. If he'd known what he held wasn't the Lux ... I fear we might not have gotten away without more fatalities."

"But everyone's alright?" I ask in a breath of a voice. "What about Joel and Eddie? Oh Lord, I completely forgot about them. I was so focused on Bran because of all the blood, but Eddie and— _Joel_ —Joel could be—"

Dead—he could be _dead_. And I _forgot_ about him.

"Bennet," Jeremy says gently. I go absolutely still, my breath catching in the back of my throat. "They returned very much alive."

I can breathe.

"They're injured, but they'll heal," Carolina tells me. "I can't say the same for my driver, however. Poor man."

Jeremy reaches over to pat his wife's hand. "As far as I can gather, this Morelock is the head of the London Olympiae but he's not, in fact, in control of the entire organisation—he only acts like he is. He has ideas above his station, William would have said."

He pours Carolina another cup of tea even though she hasn't finished the first. "Regardless of his standing, he sent your brother a message ordering him to bring the device, and that tells us a great deal about the Olympiae that you have seen and met. It tells us that they are only a minor part of the greater Olympiae Club."

I stare at the toast on my plate, but I honestly can't think about eating it. "What happened? Did Morelock have someone else with him?"

"No, he was quite alone. I have a feeling the club had abandoned him. Those are the people that most likely have that device of your father's."

"But ..." I look between my cousins, confused. "That cannot be right. Eddie was injured—I saw him—and Branwell was ... Do you mean to tell me that one man caused such injuries?"

Jeremy nods. "I'm afraid he was trained in combat."

"Where is he now?" I ask, fury beating through me. "Tell me where he is and I will make him sorry."

"Bennet," says Carolina gently. "Calm down. Everything is alright now."

"No," I snap. "No, it is _not_ alright."

"He's dead, Benny," Jeremy says bluntly. "I made quite sure of it."

My shoulders drop, violent anger fleeing me. "How did you know where to go?" I ask instead.

"Ah," Jeremy breathes with a small smile. "Ever since Caro wrote to me I have been doing a little digging of my own. I found a great deal about the Olympiae but nothing at all about what they actually do. Some articles mention developments in the sciences, some speak of industrialisation, and others speak of advancements in medicine. Nobody seems to know what exactly their purpose is.

"I meant to visit Morelock's residence for a simple talk. I was intending to write an article—a genuine one, as a cover for my investigation. And then I heard that the building had been vacated. There were more men than Morelock living there, you know? I'm told there were ten men all in the one house. Of course it was all secret and confidential, but whispers do echo among certain people. As soon as I heard it had been deserted I got myself out there, expecting to find nothing but dust."

"Plus, I activated my wedding ring," Carolina adds, as if her words aren't completely incongruous.

"Ah." Jeremy smiles at my confusion. "I admit, I'm a little paranoid of my ... enemies, shall we say, hurting my wife. When twisted a certain direction, Carolina's ring gives off a signal."

"Which does this," Carolina finishes, turning her ring; a red flashing light appears inside the face of Jeremy's watch. Bran would love this, I think, and then I'm sad and worried and wanting to run to him all over again.

I push my chair back and stand. "I'm going to see my brother."

Neither of them stops me as I hurry out of the dining room. I stop in the hallway, feeling useless. I don't know if my brother will be in his room in the basement or in one of the more comfortable rooms on this level. I think the latter—they wouldn't have carried him down the stairs last night when he was bleeding. The thought of him coming out of the carriage last night makes me dizzy and I reach out to brace myself against the wall, but instead my hand meets a warm body and strong arms support me.

I turn in surprise to find Joel looking pale and sallow but with a smile lighting his face. I'm about to pull away from him but I decide to allow him to hold me up.

"You should be resting," I say, the urge to herd him back to bed rushing up in me. "You were _hurt_." I think. I don't know. I didn't see him, was stupid and cruel and didn't even think to ask after him when I woke.

He laughs, a warm rumble that smooths the rough edges of my panic. "I'm patched up, as good as new."

"That's a lie," I say and he smiles—wide, his eyes so bright. I notice now, as his face changes, that that he has a jagged cut on his face, right across his cheekbone. "Oh, Joel, your face!"

His smile vanishes for a second before it's replaced with forced brightness. "I know. I'm hideous." He shrugs as if he's joking, a move made awkward by his arm still holding me up. "But it could be worse."

My fingers trace the edge of the cut that will surely scar, as lightly as if I were not touching him at all. "You're not hideous," I assure him. He doesn't reply. "Joel, this is all my fault," I cry, dropping my hand to my side. "If I'd listened to father and protected Bran like I was supposed to, he would never have been hurt and neither would you."

He squeezes my waist, freezing me with an intense look. " _Nothing_ that has happened is your fault. If you're looking for someone to blame, choose Morelock, or another one of that infernal club, but not yourself. Nothing you could have said or done would have swayed Branwell out of going for your cousin."

"Nothing at all?"

"No." He smiles, easy and charming, softening his face.

My heart tumbles in my chest, bringing clarity back to me. I can't be looking at Joel with soft eyes. He's my ... he's ... _Joel_. He's Joel. Pulling away from him, I begin trudging down the corridor, not paying attention to where I'm going. He follows, of course. "If I were a better sister, I'd have been able to persuade him to stay. I would have _made_ him. I would have ensured his safety, and then called Jeremy to rescue Carolina."

"And that would have been a damn sight safer than running into the night after her." He catches my arm and refuses to let go, halting me. When I stop, he spins me to face him. "But when faced with something like that—your cousin's life in danger—could you, in all honesty, have thought sensibly?"

"No," I admit, hanging my head.

"And would anything—anything in the world—have stopped you from running into danger if you thought it would save her?"

"No."

"Then please, Bennet, stop blaming yourself."

I search his eyes for a long moment, not entirely sure what I am looking for, but all I find is warmth and genuine concern. My heart is a crumpled mess. I'm sure everything is written in my eyes. "You called me Bennet."

He laughs at that, a big, loud, laugh that makes me feel okay for the first time since my father's death. Tensions and tightness I didn't even know had me in their fists loosen their hold, even if only for a second.

"Thank you," I say, touching his wrist.

His wide eyes find the place where my fingers brush his skin. "What are you thanking me for?"

"For bringing me back into myself."

He shakes his head, but there's a softness to him, a happiness, like he's about to start laughing again.

I smile, unable to tear my eyes from him, but then I remember the previous night, my brother, the blood. The smile falls off my face. "I don't know where my brother is, Joel."

"Luckily for you, I do." He offers me his arm and takes me back the way we came.

09:19. 01.10.1878. London.

Jeremy, Carolina, and I are gathered around Branwell. He's much improved today—he's up and about, wandering around the bedroom and holding energised conversations. I just wish he'd eat more. For breakfast he only tore off a corner of dried toast before launching into some rant or other about Morelock. Carolina and I share a wordless conversation while Jeremy is absorbed in whatever it is Bran is saying.

"My father's journals say differently," Bran argues. "He wrote that there was an American branch and _that_ is where the most influential members were."

"But it is entirely likely that there are other branches he was unaware of. Groups like The Olympiae Club tend to establish themselves in China. The opium business always draws the wealthy and greedy alike, and these clubs consist of an equal amount of both. They assume that if they have the optimum amount of wealth, power will follow—which, more often than not, turns out to be the case."

"You know an awful lot about this," Bran comments, his eyes narrowed.

"My father was a member of something similar. It was less about elitism and more about greed, but the principles are the same."

"Were you ever asked to join?" Carolina asks, looking at her husband with a furrowed brow.

"I was," Jeremy confirms, ruffling his golden hair, "but I've never been interested in secrets or organised hatefulness or whatever else it is that they get up to. I only have a vague idea, but I have no desire to be part of it."

"I don't understand why this matters." I sigh and take a sip of tea.

"It matters because if we can find out where the Olympiae have gone, we might be able to find the Lux," says Bran. His cheeks are flushed, either with sickness still or excitement. Both, probably.

"And the Weapon," Jeremy adds. "I'm very interested in getting that away from these men. They can play with their fake influence and their imagined power, but after a while they will garner an audience and interest. These groups always do. I'll bet you anything The Olympiae Club is much larger than we think, and that they're capable of things we haven't even thought of yet."

"Like what?" I ask, a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"You say the Lux, when used with their own device, will create unimaginable destruction. The journals speak of scorched earth and terror. I daresay that is correct, but the Olympiae must have a way of controlling it, deciding which parts of the world they might destroy."

"Jeremy, what on Earth you saying?" asks Carolina. She clutches a teacup with white hands, looking equal parts fearful and enraged.

"I think the Olympiae will attempt to bring destruction to our world, and they may indeed succeed in killing a great deal of us. Perhaps they believe people of lesser money and birth should be eradicated, or at the very least controlled; an unsettling number of these organisations do. This, I think, is what your father meant—that the Weapon won't end the world altogether, but it will change it beyond recognition."

"We need to tell someone," Carolina exhales, setting her cup down hard. "This has gone on long enough. At first, when it was simply about our family, that was our concern, but if what you say has a chance of truly happening—or something different, worse—we need to inform the police." A canny glint fills her eyes. "Or someone else who could stop this. Jeremy, you know someone who can help us, I'm sure."

Jeremy runs a hand through his hair. "Who would believe us? What proof do we have?"

"The journals!" Bran bursts out. "Nobody can deny their words."

"They could be dismissed as the ramblings of a dying man. I'm afraid nobody will help us with only that."

"We should at least try," I say, wishing I didn't agree with them, wishing I could keep my family out of danger. But if those men are going to use my father's device and their own weapon to erase people from the earth, for whatever reason, we're not safe even if we stay home and do nothing. I lace my fingers together and grip them until they turn white. "You should tell the person you trust the most and see if they will help us. If even _they_ will not offer us help, nobody will."

Bran frowns. "I agree. We need to tell someone. I thought we could do this—whatever this is—alone. But after Morelock ... it's too dangerous."

"Have you read this?" Jeremy asks, looking to my brother. He's picked up one of the journals that lay on the bed.

Bran nods. "More times than I can remember."

"But have you truly _read_ them?" There's a light in Jeremy's eyes.

"I don't understand what you mean."

"Certain words and letters are italicised. It's not particularly noticeable, but then I knew your father so I knew to search for it. In the entry where he talks about the higher sectors of the Olympiae there's an embedded message—an address. It must be significant or he wouldn't have gone to the length of putting it in code."

"Is it an English address?" I ask, leaning forward.

Jeremy nods. "A London one—close to the Holborn Viaduct. It wouldn't take long to travel there."

"No," Bran protests immediately. I close my mouth on my own protest, a little shocked that my reckless brother is saying no. "Nobody is going off to anymore unknown buildings." I can see the mark that night has left in him, a tension in his shoulders, a flit of fear in his eyes. He's _scared_.

"I wasn't going to suggest going alone," Jeremy says. As soon as he's spoken, his jaw snaps shut and a vacant look comes over his eyes. Carolina leans across the distance between them to shake his shoulder but he's already retreated to the inside of his mind.

Jeremy has always been a little strange. Scatter-brained, some people call him. Others call him worse. Carolina once explained that when he has an idea or a spark of brilliance, his mind protects itself from distractions by cutting off his awareness of the outside world until he has produced a plan or solution.

It takes fifteen minutes for Jeremy to return to the room, during which the tray of biscuits and tea that Nancy brought in for us a while ago is emptied, and we sit in nervous quiet. I think we all know that whatever Jeremy suggests when he comes back to consciousness will be the course of action we take.

"I have to go," he says finally, darting up. "There are things I must do, people I need to contact."

"Jeremy." Carolina catches his arm, looking up into his face. "What is it?"

"I'm alright, Cara," Jeremy assures her, pressing a lingering touch to her face. "And I know what we need to do to get the devices into safe hands. All of you—" He glances around the room. "Well, perhaps not Branwell. But Bennet; you be ready to leave the house in an hour or so."

"Why?" I ask, my stomach tripping. "Where are we going?"

"To the address in the book. But, don't worry, we won't be going alone."

"Then who'll be going with us?"

"The Goldens."

Bran groans noisily and flops onto his back. "God save us all. Anyone but them."

***

Honour

10:10. 01.10.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

Today I overheard two Officials talking. They were hanging around my work, waiting to catch anyone for stealing or doing their job ineffectively. They spent the whole time gossiping.

One of them, a thirty year old, superior-looking Official was boasting about the apartment he had saved for him in States's capital and all the fancy things it had: electric heating, running water, and some stuff I didn't recognise. The other Officials reeled off their own plans for the coming winter. It sounded like none of them planned to be here come Christmas.

But then one of them said something careless, the other two hissing at him to keep his mouth shut, but I'd already heard.

Soon enough no one'll remember Forgotten London. I'll be happy to never hear the name of this shithole ever again.

All the hairs on my body stood on end.

Now I know States and their military are planning something. F.L. won't exist anymore. They're going to kill us all. But I knew that already.

And now I know it's close.

***

Branwell

11:02. 01.10.1878. London.

No sooner have I walked into the sitting room than Bennet says, " _No._ "

"What?" I ask with an air of innocence.

"I know what you're planning, so I will repeat what I said: _No_."

"What's going on?" Carolina glances between the two of us. She's dressed in a dark red dress, almost black. It hangs loosely around her legs and fits tightly over her upper body, of a thin material I know is not in style. Bennet is in something similar. I almost ask why but then I realise that they're in a weak attempt at fighting attire. I suppose if they do have to fight, it would be difficult in half a million skirts.

"He wants to come with us," my sister says on a sigh.

"That is out of the question." Carolina purses her lips. "You're hurt, Branwell, don't be an imbecile. I know that's difficult for you but do _try_."

I narrow my eyes. "I can walk and run and do everything as normal—I've tested myself. I don't see why I should stay here while you're out there doing God only knows what."

"It's the 'God only knows what' that you won't be partaking in. Do the smart thing and return to your room."

My glare clashes with Carolina's. "I'm going with you."

"Go back to bed," she says, steely, just as Jeremy walks through the door, two familiar people beside him. I scowl, shoving my hands into my trouser pockets.

"Ah, Bran, you're up," Jeremy notices cheerfully. "Are you coming with us?"

"No, he is not!" Bennet shouts.

"Still allowing your sister to order you around I see, Branwell," remarks one of the newcomers; Ernest Golden—an old 'friend' of our family, though certainly not of mine. He's a tall man—barely—with black hair, dark eyes, and a perpetual snicker in his voice. He's a mere year older than Bennet and me but he acts as if there's a decade of age and wisdom separating us.

His sister, the second new-arrival, is much more tolerable. Like her brother's, her hair is dark, flowing in unrestrained waves around her arms today. She's beautiful but in a way that assures everyone she very much knows that fact. She stands tall and looks at everyone as if she is the most important person in the room, but when she's away from her brother she'd been known to have fun.

"Humouring her," I reply to Ernest.

He smiles coldly. "Of course."

"What are they doing here, Jeremy?" I look to my cousin who's now fixated on the journal in which he discovered the address. He doesn't raise his eyes from the page when he answers me.

"They're helping us, of course. The gentleman who lives at the address we're to visit is a member of a prestigious social circle. Ernest here will set up a meeting with him under false pretences—of following in his grandfather's footsteps as a member—and we shall go with him. That will give us access to the house and from there ... well, I rather think we'll make it up."

"Don't we always?" Bennet mutters.

I fold my arms over my chest. "How much have you told them?"

"As much as they need to know," Jeremy replies calmly. "They have their own interest in the matter—they won't betray our trust."

Bennet comes to stand beside me. "What does that mean?"

Instead of Jeremy, it's Nell Golden who answers, her voice sharp. "The Olympiae Club killed our mother. You are not the only people who want justice for their actions."

Her words stun us into silence, but I have to ask, "Why? Why did they kill your mother?"

"Because she knew something they did not want her to."

Carolina looks between her husband and the Golden siblings, "And what is that exactly?"

"How to disable their Weapon."

"And how to construct a replica," Ernest adds. "Although they weren't aware of the latter."

"Did she tell you where it was kept?" I ask, hope rising that we'll be able to quickly, easily remove this world-destroyer from the Olympiae.

Nell smiles bitterly. "It used to be in a vault in the countryside but it was moved a week before her death. She never found out to where it was taken."

"There seems to have been a lot of that going on," Jeremy sighs, shutting the journal.

Ernest demands "A lot of what?"

"Held back information, secrecy, suspicious happenings—and a great deal more coincidences than I like. Your mother was a physician, was she not?"

"She was."

"This Weapon they have is more than we think it is. Why would a doctor like your mother have information about such a thing? I can understand why William would be involved—the thing would need to be invented and designed by someone—but a doctor?"

"What are you getting at, Jeremy?" I ask.

"I have no idea. Something about it is important. We know the Weapon is designed to burn whatever happens to be in its path, but it would help if we knew how exactly the device works or— _hell_ —what the damned thing even is."

Ernest fixes his jaw. "Talking about it won't do anything, will it? We should be going."

"You're right," Jeremy agrees sheepishly. "The carriages should be ready."

"What about me?" I ask.

Jeremy looks at me seriously and I feel the weight of that gaze like a tangible thing. "Do you honestly think you're well enough to come with us? Could you defend yourself should we run into any trouble?"

I walk up to him and lower my voice so only he can hear. "Honestly? No. But I can't let my sister go into something like this alone. I won't lose her as well as my father."

He nods, his eyes filled with understanding. "Come on, then, let's get going."

***

Honour

11:18. 01.10.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

We're let out of work early today, heightening the excitement for the celebration later.

Tia's in the living room when I get in. She acts as if I've caught her doing something she shouldn't be, but I can't work out what—all she's doing is writing a letter. I think it's some kind of goodbye to John and Thalia.

"You're early," she says. It sounds like an accusation.

I lower myself to the floor, not feeling like sitting in John's chair or Thalia's and Wes's sofa.

I expect her to lecture me but she chews her lip instead. "You look tired."

"I am. With working all the time, and with what I've done to Thalia and John ... it's just—well it's not easy." I drop my eyes to the floor. "I shouldn't be feeling sorry for myself. It's my own fault."

"Honour," she whispers, sliding off the sofa to kneel beside me. "I'm sorry—for what I said."

"Don't apologise for the truth. It needed to be said."

"No. I was harsh. The way I said it was wrong."

I close my eyes. "Doesn't matter."

She pulls her knees to her chest and leans against my shoulder. I pointedly ignore the lump in my throat even. I feel like I've got my sister back, even if it's just for this minute.

"I'm sorry, Honour," she whispers suddenly, seriously. "I'm so sorry, for everything I've done."

I peel my eyes open to look at her—an effort when my body is telling me to sleep. "You haven't done anything wrong."

"I know." She smiles but her eyes are full of misery. "I know I haven't. That's the worst thing. Everything feels wrong but I know it's right."

"Tia—"

"Sorry, I'm talking nonsense. It's just ... everything."

"I know." I put an arm around her and she collapses against me.

As soon as the celebration is over and the extra Officials have been shipped away, I'm getting us out. We're not going to be here for whatever States is planning. I've been too focused our family's loss that I'd forgotten the importance of getting out of F.L.

Again, I'm hit by the wanting, the need to warn Forgotten London. But I can't. I'm just one person.

***

Branwell

11:26. 01.10.1878. London.

We take three carriages between us, which I thought was unnecessary until Jeremy told us the Goldens didn't come alone—they brought several of their men with them.

The Golden family have always been in the business of illegal trading; a result of which involves them keeping a large number of 'men' on their premises for security purposes. To an adversary they'd appear intimidating and dangerous—safer to stay away from—but our families have been entwined throughout history, so to us the Goldens are simply friends. The last generation—my grandfather's family—had separated themselves from the Golden family due to a conflict of interest—also known as my grandmother—but my father and Ernest's father became acquainted when they were boys and the friendship began again.

Along with Ernest and Nell Golden, seven of their guards, my cousins, my sister, and I rattle along the cobblestones in our carriages towards the obscure address in Holborn. It's busy at this time, almost midday, and shouts and voices fill the streets along with the sounds of carriages and merchants' wagons rolling along the cobbles. It's almost deafening where large roads intersect—especially Holborn Circus. I lean my head against the side of the carriage and watch people march importantly down the street to shops in the tall, curving buildings.

My shoulder throbs. I wrapped it up as tight as I could manage, not wanting anyone else to see how wide the cut actually is, but it would have been better if I'd had help. It's starting to hurt already but I force myself to ignore it. The pain will fade as it did before.

"How far away are we?" I ask to distract myself.

"Five minutes or less," Jeremy tells me. "Ernest and Nell will ride right up to the house but we'll stop a minute or so away to make our intentions less conspicuous."

Bennet reaches across to clasp my hand. "How will we know when to go in? Will they send a signal?"

Jeremy shakes his head. "Far too risky. We'll enter through a door at the back of the house a short while after."

"And that _isn't_ risky?" I almost laugh. "Anyone could catch us."

"And what if this is the location of the Lux?" Carolina snaps. "Jeremy did his best with what we had. Be grateful we have a plan at all. If it were left up to you, you'd go storming in the front door and get us all killed."

Her words hit closer to home than she realises. I lean back against the window and say nothing.

"Did you have to be so harsh?" Bennet hisses to our cousin.

"What does he expect? There's hardly a safe way to trespass."

"And we shouldn't acknowledge the danger, is that what you are saying? Should we skip hand in hand into the building without a worry?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Bennet."

"Don't _you_ be ridiculous. Why is finding the Lux so important to you? You never cared for my father before he died. Why do you care so much now? Or is it not about him—is this simply another task for you to prove to yourself that you're every bit as capable as a male? Well you're not—and running headfirst into a confrontation like you did with Morelock is only proof of it."

"Bennet!" Jeremy says, shocked, but that doesn't stop her. I turn my head away from the streets to see Carolina's jaw set, her pale face flushed, and my sister's eyes blazing. Is this grief? Is this what it does? Why does it hollow me out instead of filling me with anger?

In a low, vicious voice, Benny says, "When are you going to accept the fact that the Lux is gone for good, and nothing you can do can possibly change the fact of it?"

Carolina says nothing.

"Is that what you really think?" I ask Bennet, something in me dying. "The Lux is gone? Our search for it is futile?"

"Yes," she whispers, not looking at me. "I'm sorry, Bran. I know the Lux was important to our father but if it's gone, it's gone. Without telling the police ... what can we do? We should be concentrating on living our lives. Moving—" She struggles to finish. "Moving on."

"It matters," I whisper, "because it is what our father wanted. I thought you would understand that. And more than that, the things the Olympiae can do with it powering their weapon ... I can't be responsible for sitting back and letting that happen."

The carriage begins to pull over by the side of the road and I throw the door open and leap out before it has a chance to stop. I wobble but land on my feet and press on, hunching against the chill air. I can see where the Golden's carriage is heading and I follow it down a quieter, if not entirely quiet, street.

The Goldens' carriage rolls up to a tall terraced house, and I stay around only long enough to see that it's the central house in the block before I go around the back. The rear door is unlocked and I'm not sure whether to sigh or smile because they're expecting us. I drag a hand through my hair. Whoever lives here knows that the meeting with the Golden siblings is only a decoy. Why else would they leave the door open? They are inviting us inside.

I could go right into the house by myself but I'd probably die. So I sit on the back steps, tense, my hands in fists, and wait for the others to come.

I don't know if Bennet means what she said—but is she right? Is the Lux lost forever, no matter my father's wishes? I always thought it would take a long time to find it—years even—but I thought we'd have some solid information by now, something to point us in the right direction. All we have are useless blueprints, business documents that talk of incomes and outlays, and very little else.

I thought we were on the right trail with the paper Carolina found—the one that told her of Morelock's residence—but after dissecting it for a few moments, Jeremy said it was useless. A distraction, something conveniently left behind to be found should someone go searching. And we fell directly into the trap.

My guess is we were meant to die then, that Morelock's purpose was to take care of anyone who might approach them. But that only assures me the Lux and whatever these people are doing with it is important—enough that they'd have us removed from the picture. And _that_ only serves to make me even more determined to continue what we're doing, no matter how futile this house searching is.

Bennet can do as she pleases, but I won't give up on the promises I made. I told my father I would hide his work and I failed. I'll get them back, no matter how long it takes.

"Bran?"

Jeremy, Carolina, and a number of strangers stand in front of me. It's a second before I place them as the Goldens' guards.

"Where's Bennet?" I ask, rising.

Jeremy looks at me sadly. "I sent her home. This is taking its toll on her."

"The door's open," I say instead of discussing my sister. A tight pain has set up shot behind my ribs. "They're expecting us."

Carolina exhales, distaste twisting her mouth. "Then let's not keep them waiting."

She charges up the stairs and inches the door open. Jeremy runs after her and the rest of us follow warily.

A butler not much older than me waits for us in the kitchen and beckons us into a parlour with a smile. I'm suddenly glad for the guards. We find Nell and Ernest on an opulent sofa looking entirely lost. A man, leaning casually against the mantelpiece, watches us file into the room with thinly veiled amusement. He laughs aloud at the appearance of the guards.

"Expecting a fight?" he enquires. "I'm incredibly sorry to disappoint you, but you won't be getting one."

All my breath goes out of me. I'm suddenly very, very glad my sister went home.

"Who are you?" Jeremy asks, raised to his full height.

"That doesn't concern you. What does concern you is what I'm about to tell you. Sit."

Too afraid to refuse, I perch on the edge of a damask chair and Carolina and Jeremy join the Goldens on the sofa. The guards stand at the back of the room, looking every bit ready for war. All the while the man watches us with sharp, beady eyes.

I'd place him at thirty five but he has the kind of face that could be a decade younger or older. He's dressed in a strange style; no tails on his jacket, no flourish of common decoration save for thin strands of gold running vertically through an otherwise plain shirt.

"Your quest to find the Lux is doomed," he says with another smile. "I promise you you'll never find it. I've hidden it a long, _long_ way from here where it will fulfil its most hidden potential and change history for the better."

I almost speak—what does he mean _change history_?—but a voice at the back of my mind tells me I should let this man speak if he wants to give up all his secrets.

"The Weapon is a different thing altogether, and I have no idea why you're looking for that. You shouldn't even know about it."

"How do you know what we're looking for?" Carolina asks sharply.

He chuckles. "Do you honestly think you can trust everyone in that big house you're staying in?" He turns to me. "Do you think you can trust everyone in your employment? Don't assume people won't divulge even the most harmful piece of information for the right price."

"You're a liar," I say through clenched teeth. My heart pounds so hard, so fast. Anger, fear, anger, fear.

He shrugs. "I sure am—but not about this. You have a little snitch in your house."

Jeremy tenses. "A spy?"

The nameless man rolls his eyes. "Call it whatever you want, the fact is still the same. One of your servants is an informant, a puppet of mine. And if you don't give up this pointless search ... I might have to pull a few strings and see what happens."

Jeremy stands up suddenly, his face red and fuming, but his wife pulls him back down. He looks as if he wants to say something, and heatedly, but Carolina's hand on his arm is keeping him back.

The man by the fireplace looks pleased, _smug_. I want to kill him but I'm too conscious of how this could turn violent—how quickly I could die—to move more than an inch. "Anyway." He waves a hand. "I don't have long to stay and chat. I've a new world to organise, destroy, rebuild—et cetera."

The cord holding me back snaps, anger beating fear in their battle. "Where are my father's inventions? What have you done with them?" Not _what are you doing to do_?—what have you _done_? All the things I feared would happen, all the nightmares I told myself to keep me going, keep me looking for the Lux when I wanted to lie down and give up—people killed, mass murders, cities crushed, the world in ruins, the world at _war_ —flash before my eyes again, but this time it's worse. The way he talks ... he's already done it, whatever horror he's unleashed on our world. It's too late.

He sees the hopelessness in me and shakes his head. "They're in a faraway place—one you don't, _and never will_ , have access to. As for what I've done with them, I have changed the world. No, no, that won't do." He shakes his head, dramatic. "I've _saved_ the world. From itself, from its own people." He examines the wide sweep of the fireplace, the flowers in the middle. "Do you know," he says, "how many advances there have been this past decade? _Thousands._ And only the smallest number of them has been revealed to the public. In my new world, all the inventions, all the information, all the resources— _everything_ will come to us. We will have everything we deserve."

"By 'we' you mean The Olympiae Club?" Jeremy says sharply. "Only the best for your new world, is it? What will you do with the rest of us?"

The man tilts his head, a spark of anger kindling in his eyes. "The rest of the world was unworthy."

"Was?"

He smiles. _Smiles._ "I didn't use the past tense for the hell of it. The Olympiae was formed for the betterment and progression of humanity. This is humanity progressing—this is the new world. A world populated with only the deserving and those smart enough to serve us."

Carolina's expression is dark, her hand white where she grips Jeremy's. "With you at the head of this new world, I assume?"

"Who better to lead them into the future than me? I did form The Olympiae Club after all. I did all of this for them. You could have been a part of it if you'd have asked. Your good breeding would have been welcomed."

"I'd never be one of you. You are men playing God."

The man shakes his head, grinning now. "No, we _are_ Gods. Our world is the new Olympus." He looks at Jeremy, at Ernest. "You could have had the sorry remnants of the world falling at your feet as they fall at mine."

"This world will never fall before you." Jeremy snarls and leaps up from his seat. A flash of silver is in his hand, a knife he'd had concealed. He drives it into the other man's chest but it passes through.

"I don't need _this_ world, and I'm sorry," the bastard says with a smirk, "but I can't stay. I have a limo and an empire waiting."

Around the knife, and with a grin still on his face, the image of the man flickers and disappears. The knife comes away without blood, and the man, the founder of the Olympiae, is gone.

"How the devil did he do that?" Ernest gasps, his mouth hanging open.

"We should leave," Carolina whispers, pulling Jeremy away from the space where the man stood.

"He must have had some device," I say, shaking. My voice shakes too. "Something that could transport him from place to place."

"How many more devices does this man possess?" Ernest rises to his feet and offers an arm to his sister. "What power does this man have over us? How can he ... how can he say those things so assuredly—that he will create a new world, that he will rule it, that we will ... we will fall at his feet?"

"I don't think we'll fall at his feet, Ernest," I say wearily. Both anger and fear have deserted me. I'm hollowed out. "I think we'll be dead long before this new world comes about. And he knows that; he wouldn't have told us any of that if he thought we'd survive to tell someone."

"Perhaps he thought nobody would believe us," Nell suggests weakly. She leans against her brother for support, pale and terrified. "It doesn't mean we're going to die."

Nell and Ernest have gone by the time I emerge from the house. Two of their guards stayed with us while we searched the rooms. I knew nothing would turn up.

As we climb wearily into the carriage, a man comes running down the street, his arms flailing about. He goes straight for Jeremy and grabs him by his coat lapels.

"Are you his family?" the stranger asks, manic. He shakes Jeremy. A guard steps in to pull him away but he hangs on determinedly. "Are you William's family?"

"It's okay," Jeremy says to the guard. "We're William's family. You knew him?"

All strength goes from the man. "I knew him. I made it—that damned thing. I made it and now I can't take back my actions because it's gone."

Jeremy, Carolina and I share a look. My father wasn't the only person who invented for the Olympiae.

"Come with us," Jeremy says quietly, "and you can tell us all about it over tea."

*

When Bennet and I enter the dining room—after apologies and reconciliations—the stranger is devouring a bowl of soup.

"This is George," Carolina tells us, trying not to look uncomfortable. I sit at one end of the table beside Jeremy while Bennet stands against the wall in between Edward and Joel. Both our eyes are fixed on the man. "George, you remember Branwell from the carriage ride. This is his sister—William's daughter—Bennet."

George looks up from his food for a moment, nods to Bennet and me in turn, and returns to the bowl.

Carolina frowns, some sympathy in her eyes. "When was the last time you ate?"

"Three days ago," he answers, finishing the soup. "I've been running since then. Those men ... they broke into my home and tried to murder me. I couldn't believe it. These were my colleagues, my _friends_." He shakes his head, some way between furious and sad. "I laid on the floor and acted as if they'd killed me. My injuries are painful but they're not likely to kill me, so I count myself lucky. As soon as I was sure they believed my death, I began to run—and search for you."

I lean forward, elbows on the polished table. "You did?"

George glances around the dining room, skittish even when safe. "It's not easy for a man to seek information and stay hidden at the same time. This morning one of the club members saw me. He chased me for a good few hours, and after he lost me, after my heart stopped trying to throw itself from my chest, I chased _him_. I followed the bastard all the way to Holborn and that house. When I saw the carriage outside, I knew they were up to something so I waited. I half expected the ground to fall from under my feet—that's what the Weapon does, I'm sure you know—but it proved stable. And then you emerged.

"As soon as I saw you—" He glances at Jeremy. "I knew you had to be a relative of William's. And Branwell of course is practically identical to William in his youth. And you know what happened next; you brought me here."

The question burns inside me but I wait until the moment he stops talking to ask, "What do you mean _that's what the Weapon does_?"

George's eyes widen considerably. "You don't know its capabilities?"

"No," Jeremy and Carolina say at the same time. They both have the same hungry, inquisitive glint in their eye. "We don't know," Jeremy continues, "but if you could tell us, we would be very grateful."

"It..." George falters. A faraway look crosses his face. "It destroys. There are two uses—it can be buried beneath the ground's surface, and the very earth beneath our feet would cave in. Buildings would fall, chaos would ensue."

"And the other use?" Carolina presses.

"If left above the ground, and powered with something of immense energy, it would burn the world—beyond recognition. People, buildings, rivers, cities, all signs of life—everything in its radius would be scorched."

"And you invented such a thing?" Jeremy says angrily. "What possessed you? What is _wrong_ with you? Are you a part of this new world as well as everyone else in the Olympiae _Club_? What did they promise you—wealth, status—?" Jeremy stands, heaving with anger, and I'm guessing before he can throttle the man, he storms from the room. With a look of complete loathing at George, Carolina runs after him, leaving the entire dining room stunned.

"What good did you think would come of inventing it?" I ask quietly. I can't process what I'm feeling—disgust, confusion, apprehension, anticipation.

"I didn't." George laughs humourlessly. "You misunderstand. You think I'm like your father. You think I used my genius to create things. I did not. I was a banker, and I was completely happy with my life. My own father recognised that I had a brain for creation and told me to keep it secret. I think he must have known that a genius mind will always be exploited.

"The Olympiae came to me two years ago. They said my father was indebted to them, and that I, as his eldest son, had inherited the debt. I ignored them for a time, but then my youngest son died of blood poisoning and the Olympiae sent me a message the following day promising that the same would happen to the rest of my family if I didn't cooperate.

"So you see," he says, looking at me with a bleak expression, "I had very little choice but to follow their instructions."

"What about my father?" Bennet whispers, coming to stand behind my chair, gripping the wooden back. "Was he ... threatened?"

"Not that I'm aware of. He blindly trusted the Olympiae, and not because he knew what they planned and wanted a part of it for himself—because they believe what they're doing is the right thing to do. And that was enough for William."

She takes a tight breath. "So he helped them..."

"Because they needed help. And he could give it."

"And then they killed him," I say, looking at the whorls in the table, "because he had outlived his usefulness." I finally settle on one cohesive emotion—hollow grief.

"No," George says, and for a second when his eyes meet mine, a smile ghosts across his face. "They killed him because he dared to say no to them. Once William found out what their plan, he'd have nothing more to do with them. He assisted them because he thought he was helping, but when he knew they weren't the kind of men he'd thought, he was brave enough to walk away. Not a single one of us, other than William, ever was."

"He told us he was working for the government," I say, cold on the inside. I cannot begin to comprehend my father's secrets.

"That's what the club tell everybody when they first enrol in their employment. They even have official-looking papers. People trust their government to do the right thing, so they rarely question when a supposed branch has a dubious request. And of course the monetary benefit is enough to keep most doubts from growing."

"If their employees think they're working for government officials, how did William know about the club and their motives?" This comes from Joel, standing tall beside my sister, anger in every taut line of his body. I wish I still felt angry. "He found out about them somehow, didn't he?"

"No." George runs a hand down his face. "Norcross told him. He's the one in charge of recruitment here. The thing about The Olympiae Club is they employ people with the sole intention of inducting them into their ranks—so after a while they assess their employees and single out those they think are useful to them and discard those who won't fit. William was one of those singled out. They asked him to be a part of the Olympiae _,_ told him what that entailed, and he declined. He resigned from their employment shortly after that."

I laugh bitterly. "Resigned."

"How do we stop it?" The words erupt from Joel as if he can't stop them. "The Golden siblings said their mother could disable the Weapon—if she could, then so can we."

George looks at Joel—a long, sad look. The place where hope used to reside in me is a gutted wasteland. "That is indeed a solution to this problem. You find the Weapon and disable it so it can no longer hurt anyone. Reclaim your Lux with it. Once it's disabled, you're able to destroy it."

"But," I prompt.

"But the Weapon is no longer just _the Weapon_. If it were as simple as that, I'd have attempted to get it back myself. But the club anticipated this. I'm surprised they haven't let you find one of them to fool you into thinking you've halted their plan. The truth is there's not only one Weapon. The device has been duplicated. I wish I knew how many times—it could be ten, it could be hundreds." He avoids eye contact. "And I'm sad to tell you that the Lux will have also been duplicated. So there's really nothing you can do to stop this, unless you have some way to discover where their new headquarters is and gain access."

"So it's hopeless?" Joel's shoulders drop.

"I'm sorry, but yes. It is entirely hopeless."

My mind spins fast, making connections. "What if I do?" I say.

_Unless you have some way to discover where their new headquarters is and gain access._ But I do, don't I? Those bracelets my father left in the box in his attic. They will take me wherever I need to go—they will take me wherever the Olympiae is keeping these devices.

"Tell me how to disable the Weapon," I say, the aching emptiness of my soul rapidly filling with hope and determination.

"I do not see how that will—"

"I don't care." I'm sure I look feverish, halfway out of my seat with bright, wild eyes. I can feel my heart beat in the hollow of my throat and I take a deep breath. This could fail—it will fail. But it also might work. _Might._ It's so much more than I had ten minutes ago. "Just tell me how to disable it. What harm can it do?"

"What are you thinking?" Bennet lays a hand on my shoulder. I wince as her hand comes down right above the cut and she draws her hand back sharply. "I'm so sorry. I forgot. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Benny." It hurts all the time, but there I go with the lies again. I narrow my eyes on George who has begun to look uncomfortable. He won't be here for much longer; I can sense the urge to flee, to hide, in him. "Tell me how to disable it."

"There's a metal panel on the underside of it. Beneath are a number of wires and connections and a place for the Lux to sit. Below the Lux, I installed a safety mechanism. It's a gold lever-type thing. Pull it and the Weapon will no longer be able to function. Detach the lever completely if at all possible and the thing will be rendered useless to the Olympiae for good."

"Thank you," I breathe, and jump out of my seat.

"Bran, where are you going?" Bennet shouts as I make for the hallway, trailing after me. She runs down the corridor, shadowing me to my room. Joel follows too. I stop, looking at their confused faces.

"I know how to stop this," I whisper.

Joel sort of ... stills. "How?"

"I can get to the place they're keeping the Lux and the Weapon. I'm such an idiot for not thinking of it before but—"

"Weapons," Joel corrects me, his soberness clashing with my sudden frenzy of hope.

I look at them both, waiting for the hope to catch, waiting for them to _understand_. "I have a way to get to them, and now we know how to disable them. I can stop all of this!"

"That's madness," Bennet murmurs, but I see it in her eyes—she wants to believe it's possible. "How on Earth can you know where to go?"

"Come with me," I say and I grip her arm, towing her down the steps to my basement. Joel sighs through his nose and comes with us.

I leave Bennet and Joel in the middle of my room and dig under a loose floorboard for the box of my father's things, carefully hidden. When I open the wooden box and scatter its contents across my bed. I feel Joel and my sister step up behind me.

I take the smaller metal box that contains the bracelets and remove the letter, handing it to Bennet. Jitteriness fills me, the need to act, the need to _go_.

"What is this?" Her breath whines on its exhale as she recognises our father's handwriting. "Why didn't you show me this?" Anger—hurt.

I lower my eyes. "He told me to protect you. I was protecting you."

"By _lying_ to me?"

"Will you read what it says?"

She does, glowering at the page. Joel reads over her shoulder.

"Is this even possible?" he asks when he's finished.

"Is what the Weapon does possible?" I reply irately. "I believe what the letter says."

"These bracelets..." Benny whispers.

"They will take us to the Lux, and to the Olympiae, and we can stop them."

"We?" Bennet laughs, a sound that's both sharp and bitter.

I look from her incredulous expression to the silver box, nervous. "There are two bangles and our names are engraved on them. We're meant to do this together."

She turns her back on me and inspects the pile of books still discarded on my floor from the night I failed to hide the inventions. "What makes you think I'd go with you?"

I turn to Joel for help but he's closed up. He doesn't even look at me.

"They're meant for both of us, Benny. We're supposed to look after each other. I won't ... I won't leave you behind."

"So we go to where the bracelets take us—what then? What are we meant to do when any number of The Olympiae Club finds us? They could quite easily kill us, Branwell. Have you even thought about that?"

I hadn't thought about it—because I haven't had to. "They're going to kill everyone anyway," I say, defeated. She's not coming with me, and despite my words, I'm not sure I can ignore this. I would go alone; I'd have to. I can't ignore a way to fix this. What person would I be if I did? Someone my father would be ashamed of.

Bennet turns around and, wordlessly, embraces me.

"Why are you—?"

She sighs, her head on my shoulder. Despite my urge to act, my fear to leave her behind, I relax as she holds me. "Because sometimes I forget you're grieving too, and you're still a child."

"So are you," I retort automatically.

"Yes, but ... I always expect you to be strong for the both of us, but the truth is you're as young as I am. And neither of us is coping very well with trying to act older."

"But what about the bangles and—"

"And I'm coming with you of course."

Shock thrums in my blood; I look at her with wide eyes. I'm going to cry.

"Bennet, I don't think—" Joel says but she silences him with a look.

Benny looks at me closely. "You're going to go running off on this mad quest whether I come with you or not, and I'd rather be there to keep you in line."

I struggle to believe this— _she's coming with me, she's coming with me_. "And if we're caught? If something happens to one of us?"

"You said yourself that we'll die no matter what we do. We should act while we have the option. And I don't want to die hating myself for being selfish, for not even trying to stop what's coming."

"How do you know that it's safe to use those things?" Joel asks, his eyes on the silver box.

"Our father wouldn't leave something dangerous to us," I say, though he does of course have a point. "He would know they were safe."

But Joel doesn't take notice of me; his eyes are fixed on Bennet. "Do you think it's a good idea?"

"I think it's _an_ idea," she answers carefully, "and otherwise we do not have one." She sighs, her eyes gentling. "Joel, I can't live with myself if I let this chance go."

"And I can't live with myself if I let you go off into _certain death_ ," he shouts. I watch his words dawn upon him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—I—wish you the best of luck on your journey." He inclines his head and then vaults up the stairs before me or Bennet can utter even a syllable.

"How do they work?" Bennet asks me quickly. Urgently. "The bracelets—do you know how they function?"

I nod, worried as she becomes frenetic. "We just put them on. Are you okay?"

"Good. Yes. Don't do anything until I get back."

"Why? Where are you going?"

"To pack." She gives into the urgency I see in her and disappears up the stone stairs without another word.

"To pack," I repeat to myself, my eyes on the silver box. As if we don't both know she's gone after Joel.

***

Honour

17:05. 01.10.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

We're already in Lyric Square. Horatia made sure we were there early so we could get a front spot. She's practically bursting with energy and excitement. Her eyes never stray from one Official stood in the heart of the square. I can't tell if she's scared of him or attracted to him, but she never stops looking.

The people around us are a combination of bored, anticipating and begrudging. I'm more of the latter. I don't want to be here, but since I have no choice, I'm stood with everyone else, waiting for this thing to start and finish. I'm worn out. My fingers are stinging, my toes numb. This is the last place I want to be.

A new wave of military rolls in at ten to six and they stand in a row under the screen. The screen itself is huge, so big I can't see it all.

A crackle of static startles the crowd, and then a thrum of eagerness winds through us, raising voices and packing us closer together as people surge forward. The screen has come to life. It displays a scarlet-red float sweeping through a busy civilian-and-Official-lined street. On the back of it is a large box of glass encircled by ten Officials with gold stripes down their sleeves and a tapestry of medals decorating their lapels. _Presidential military_. The worst of them all.

Inside the glass, a man is visible, draped in purple velvet and golden robes. Underneath, a plum-coloured waistcoat is visible, with every military badge possible pinned to it. He lounges in a high-backed gold chair, holding a jewel-encrusted staff. He looks absolutely ridiculous, a cross between a General and a wizard, but I guess I should give gossip some credit, because it actually is States's President. Here in F.L.

For two hours, we watch the float go through all of the zones of Forgotten London, the President occasionally lifting his hand to acknowledge the citizens but mostly just sitting in his chair looking bored.

Horatia grips my arm, her nails scratching the denim of my jacket. "Oh my God." I can't work out her angry expression.

On the screen, the float has made its way into Shepherd's Bush, gliding down the main street. I've seen that road so many times but it looks alien to me now. It takes ten minutes for the float to get to Hammersmith, and by this point people in Lyric Square are screaming, hyperventilating, and Horatia is holding onto the barrier so hard her knuckles are white.

The Official she was watching earlier has moved closer to us but she doesn't seem to notice. She's focused on the red float just coming through the square, her eyes wide and raging.

It's surreal, seeing the President here in the flesh when I've only ever seen him on a screen. He looks plastic, or leathery, or something else that isn't human. He looks pissed off in real life—that's the main thing I notice about him. He looks really pissed off.

For a brief moment, I look up to the screen and see us in the front row. This is being broadcast to everyone, in every Forgotten Town; the whole damn world will see Horatia and me looking stunned and others smiling and jumping up and down.

I blink and the President has passed Hammersmith, and we watch the last of the journey on the big screen. By the time the float gets to Watford Zone, the President looks like he wants to jump off the float and never come back. He stands, though, finally, and gives a practised wave to the cameras. And then the screen goes black.

A few minutes later a high pitched ringing goes out and everyone covers their ears, a chorus of groans echoing through the area. As usual, the film starts late because of technical errors. I rest my arms on one of the metal barriers that keep us in place and wait. Horatia doesn't bother watching the screen; she's transfixed on the Official again. I roll my eyes. What goes on inside girls' brains, I'll never know. I've seen a few good looking girls today, but I wouldn't spend an hour staring at them.

The screen blinks and the film starts, transforming huffs and puffs and tuts to cheers and whoops and pure noise. The elation is short lived, though; the novelty wears off and everyone's bored again. I ignore the narration of the film, just watching the images flicker by. I pay more attention to eye witness accounts of the solar flares, pointlessly hoping to hear something that tells me why John was so interested in them. After that there's more narration, shockingly bad reconstructions, and _finally_ what I've been waiting for. _The Sixteen Strains_.

I don't know what I expect—for something to jump out at me and confirm what I know? But of course it's the same old information from the same old film. I block out everything about the Unnamed and the rebellion. I couldn't care less about some reckless rebel that thought he could take down States.

A laugh forces its way into my throat and I choke on it.

If I try to get even one person away from Forgotten London, doesn't that make me some reckless rebel who thinks he can take down States? Maybe I should be listening. Maybe I could take tips.

I glance at Horatia and see she's fixed her eyes on the floor. I search for the Official she was staring at but I can't find him. She's disappointed. I roll my eyes. He was just some guy that was kind of alright looking. There'll be plenty more of them.

The film ends and I pull myself off the barrier, rubbing the back of my sore neck. Horatia looks almost sick with excitement now. I wish I had the energy to feel excited, but I'm exhausted. I almost fall asleep upright while I wait for the President's speech.

It crackles to life slowly; a corner of the screen shows the leg of a mahogany table before eventually the full screen shows some fancy office in Underground London Zone. I don't know why they bother with these old screens. If they really wanted us to watch this crap, they should put up ones that actually work. God knows they have enough money for it.

The President proclaims, "Good evening, citizens of Forgotten London." His voice is scratchy. It makes me feel weird, like a shudder wants to rip down my spine, poised right at the top of my back, _waiting_. A hush falls over Lyric Square. "And good evening citizens of the Cities, and the Forgotten Lands. We're gathered here on this Victory Day to pay tribute to all that was lost during the rebellion, to celebrate our victory over the solar flares and the Unnamed, and to share our hope for the future elimination of _The Sixteen Strains_."

He squints at something behind the camera, reading words from paper as usual. I doubt he even wrote them. I bet he has people to do that so he doesn't have to waste his time. I wonder what his words would say if he wrote them himself.

"Thank you for your time and presence—"

I choke down a laugh. We don't have a _choice_. It's mandatory to be here, to _stay_ here until it's all done. That's why we're fenced in, why Officials are surrounding us.

"—and your continued support and cooperation. I will keep it short—I know how cold it is in the streets and how you want to return to your homes."

And how bored The President is of having to associate with us commoners. I try to smooth the glare from my face but don't quite manage it.

"As always, we'll have a moment of silence for the loved ones unfairly taken from us by the solar flares and _The Sixteen Strains_."

It's already silent. Nobody dares talk over the President—not even a projection of him. It's not worth getting shot.

"And now a moment of jubilation for those who have survived another catastrophic year."

A deafening roar shudders through the square and all across Forgotten London. We are well-handled puppets.

"Thank you." He smiles. Too tight in the corners, too false. "I'd like to take a few minutes to tell you about the development and progress we have made outside the borders. Our brave and selfless military," —I smother a laugh; Horatia jabs me in the ribs— "has been working outside the safety barriers, conducting experiments and collecting samples of the _other_ Strains. While battling death and illness, against all odds, there _has_ been a breakthrough."

I didn't expect that. The crowd presses forward in their eagerness. The barrier groans as I'm pressed into it, discomfort spreading through my ribs, close to pain. It's completely silent. The town itself has stopped to hear what he says.

Nobody wants out of the borders more than us.

"I'm afraid," he pauses, _sighs_ , "that things are worse than we feared. The Strains we found in the past were more advanced, more lethal than those inside our borders, but a new, _much_ worse Strain has emerged. A Strain that has killed over a hundred of our men within a single hour. A vicious, unrelenting Strain. We had thought, _we had hoped_ , that we'd be able to conquer those Strains in the diseased lands and emerge from our borders. However ... with this new Strain, as deadly as it is, we would pay the price of our lives to attempt to go out."

My stomach flips. My heart seizes, tight, and I stumble through a breath. We can't leave F.L. when there's a Strain that can kill us _that_ quickly. There'd be no way to fight it. I can't save my sister. I'd lose her, kill her.

We're dead if we stay, and we're dead if we run.

I need to read the letter again. I need to be sure—but how could he have known this would happen, that a worse Strain would be born out there? We can't stay here—we can't leave.

We're _dead_.

"And now," the President says, "to move from this morbid subject to a hopeful one—I will now announce the civilian who has been granted life in our City."

My chest gets tight, as it always does. I panic even when the citizen comes from another Forgotten Town. Last year in Forgotten Jakarta, the President took so long announcing the name that I felt certain Horatia's, Thalia's, John's, Wes's, or my own name would be called. Even though he wasn't anywhere near this town, even though the citizen came from Jakarta, I still felt scared.

This year is so much worse.

Horatia holds my hand, though, and a little of the panic seeps out of me. My chest eases up the tiniest bit. It's not enough.

"As always, States will be granting a civilian from the Forgotten Lands life in our City. This year is the turn of Forgotten London. The lucky person will be embellished with whatever they desire—food, clothing, houses, water, books, electricity, entertainment. We take this time to remember that not everybody in the world has the things we Statesmen depend upon, that there are always people who need our help and support. We take this time to say we support you, Forgotten Lands, and we commend you for surviving another shattering year."

I'm seething. _I hate him._

"And now I will announce the fortunate civilian rescued from the tragic existence of the Forgotten Lands."

The President's second-in-command—a high ranking Official woman with more medals than fingers—brings a silvery-glass box to the table and leaves it in front of the leader of States. The President smiles at the camera, papery and weak and full of thinly-veiled contempt as he dips his hand inside the box. He snaps up a strip of paper.

I've always thought there weren't enough slips of paper in the box for all the citizens of whatever Forgotten Land he was in at the time, but I never really knew 'cause I've never been anywhere but here. Now I can tell there definitely _isn't_ enough paper in the box for all our names. Maybe they eliminate the least desirable citizens first. Maybe the box is full of empty slips. Nothing would surprise me.

"The civilian of Forgotten London granted access to life in States is—"

He pauses, breathes deeply, and my heart is yearning to get out of my body.

"—Horatia Frie."

People in the square cheer. People everywhere in the world cheer. It's not their family, it's not their loved one. It's _mine_. The President claps demurely. I have to grip the metal barrier to stay upright.

"It's alright. Honour, it's okay," Horatia is whispering. "It's okay. Calm down."

"No," I gasp, forcing the word out. I fight against everything. There's water in my eyes and ice in my veins. My mind floats somewhere above me, racing through the night sky, but my body is sucked down by the terrible force of gravity, of horror, of grief.

My sister holds me up, slender fingers digging into my waist, her warmth less of a comfort than a reminder that I'm losing her, I've already lost her.

I'm going to be sick.

"No. Tia. _No_."

"Would the young lady step forward so we can escort her to her new life?" the President asks in a cheerful voice. How did he know Horatia was a girl's name? It's rare, unique, like her.

"No," I repeat. My voice isn't my own. I have nothing left. _Nothing_ left. She's all I have. They can't—I won't let them take her. I have nothing. She's not going. I won't let her. Not my sister. Not Horatia. _Never._

Horatia leans me against the barrier—I grip the cold metal with numb hands—and she grabs my chin, making me meet her clear, shining eyes. Holding that gaze, she whispers, "Honour, it'll be okay. Trust me." Fierce—she sounds determined. I can't do this. I can't lose her. She squeezes my chin, pain chasing away the ice for a second, and there's something different in her voice when she repeats, "Trust me." _Secrets._

I don't understand.

She kisses my forehead, hugs me close, and then she's jumping over the barrier, evading my hands as they reach for her and—

And the Official she was staring at earlier is catching her around the waist and lowering her safely to the ground.

It'll be okay.

No, it won't.

Trust me.

I don't know if I can.

You knew.

You _knew_ you were going to be chosen. That's what I heard in your voice, that's the secret in your eyes. That's why you've been giving me guilty looks when you think I'm not watching, and it's why you've been acting weird these past weeks.

You knew.

***

Bennet

20:14. 01.10.1878. London.

When I return to Branwell's room hours later, I'm wearing two dresses—a pale yellow, my favourite, and a dark scarlet that makes me feel like a princess with its gold trimmings and bronze lace—and underneath the two is my nightdress. My corsets are loosened to accommodate the three but it's still an effort to walk and breathe. I can't take a case of clothes because Carolina would know in a second that I was leaving. So, for the time being, I am a walking closet.

I do feel a little bit bad about leaving Carolina and Jeremy behind, but there are only two bracelets, and I want as few people walking into danger in this unknown Olympiae building as possible. I hid a dagger up my sleeve should anything happen and my soft leather boots mean I can run if the situation calls for it.

My heart is tight when I descend the stone steps, a leftover ache from my conversation with Joel, but I keep my head high and don't let it show.

I find my brother dressed in decent clothing for once—not just in shirtsleeves and trousers, but with a tweed waistcoat, a blazer, and a long overcoat. And unlike me, Bran has a leather satchel on his shoulder. I assume it holds the wooden box with my father's secrets and answers. No room for spare clothes, though, I notice.

"You don't have a coat," he says when he sees me.

"I didn't want to raise suspicion," I explain. "It would be obvious I was going out. And I didn't really want to be met with the full force of Carolina trying to hold me back. Joel was ... difficult enough."

His brow furrows as his eyes fill with concern. "Bad?"

I almost shrug but something makes me nod. "Bad."

He sighs, hefting his bag strap higher on his shoulder. "Carolina would be furious," he says mournfully.

I don't want to think about how she'll react when we get back from our escapade. _If_ we get back. " _Everyone_ will be furious."

He smiles at that for some mad reason. "You're really coming with me then?"

"Of course I am." As if I would let my brother walk into this alone.

He takes a breath to collect himself, turning serious as his eyes flit to the silver box containing the bracelets that will apparently enable us to travel from place to place—instantly, like pure, wild magic. "Hold out your wrist."

I must be as crazy as my brother because I do as he says. He unclasps one of the bracelets, watching me the whole time. There's a hidden hinge in the metal and the whole thing folds outwards. He settles it around my wrist but doesn't clasp it. I catch his meaning.

"Give me the other," I say and he puts the circle of cold, heavy metal in my hand. I manage to open it with one hand and follow his example, settling it open around his wrist. My heart tripping, I lock eyes with my brother, worrying for the thousandth time about where we'll end up. I hope these things will take us to America, to the Olympiae's location there, but I don't have much faith in these things working. How can I—it's absurd, beyond the realm of possibility. Isn't it?

Bran locks eyes with me and I gaze into him, my reflection. I'm not sure I can breathe. "On the count of three?"

I take a deep breath as he counts. When he whispers _three_ I snap the bracelet around his wrist, and he does the same with mine. It's a sudden clasp, violent, loud. I definitely can't breathe now, as I wait. I convince myself that the bracelets are just another of my father's failed inventions, but a second after I sigh and shift my hand as if to remove the bracelet, the room begins to shimmer. My heart jumps into my throat, my stomach clenching as the room shivers and then, all at once, it's gone.

There's a suspended moment of blackness. I gasp for air, holding tight to Bran's wrist but I can't tell if it's still in my hand or if he's been ripped from me. Stuttering cries fall from my lips—and then as fast as the room disappeared, it is back again.

My eyes blur, focussing as slowly as my mind processes a sudden wave of sound and my body reacquaints itself with the force holding it to the ground. When my eyes clear, I'm surrounded by colour and light and heat.

It takes me a second to realise I'm not in Branwell's bedroom anymore. I'm in the middle of a road and there are people buzzing around me—people nothing like those of London. Where my London is subdued and washed with grey like a delicate watercolour painting, this place is daring and bold in its use of colour. Red scarves, yellow buildings, piled of bright ochre sand on a vendor's stall nearby, every shade of colour imaginable woven into the clothes of the people around me. Those people—so alien, so new—rush and bustle like they do at home in the busier neighbourhoods, but they speak a language I do not recognise.

I stumble out of the road out of the path of a ... I don't know. I have no words. An automobile but ... not. Smaller, open, much faster and quieter. I shake as I recover, my heart trying to beat its way out of my body. Wrapping my arms around myself, fingers on the familiar lace of my dress—the only thing I know in this place—I crane my neck back and look up, seeking the sky. There are buildings around me—so many buildings—most blocking out the sun, narrowing the sky to a small patch when it should spread freely from horizon to horizon. My eyes stray to the high, towering buildings made of glass and metal.

Where am I?

In front of those monoliths, low, squat things made of wood and canvas boards huddle, splattered with colour in the form of powders, paints, and fabrics. So many, packed together in places where there isn't nearly enough room for them to be there.

Where am I?

Surrounded by so much unsettling unfamiliarity, it takes me a full minute to realise I'm alone. No one followed me into the middle of the road, into the path of that vehicle.

I am here, in this new world of colour, but Branwell is not.

***

Honour

23:49. 01.10.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd's Bush Zone.

Dalmar and Hele are in the kitchen when I stumble through the back door of my empty house. I don't ask why they're here because the answer is obvious—and because my stomach roils and I'm going to be sick. When I leave the bathroom minutes later, Hele moves silently and holds me. Neither of them says a word.

"She knew," I say eventually, my throat dry and raw. "She knew they were going to pick her."

Dalmar watches me closely, his eyes sympathetic. "We know."

"How?" My throat is tight, my head full of static where I used to have thoughts. " _How?_ "

"We don't know the details, but we know someone who does."

I take a tight breath but it's useless and thin in my lungs. "Who?"

"Timofei," Hele says, rubbing my arm as if I have a chill. "He's a friend of ours. He can help."

"Why do I need help?" I look at Dalmar, his arm crossed over his chest, still wearing that sad look on his face. "Why do I need _help_?"

He meets my eyes. "Because the military will be coming after you. Horatia being picked wasn't a coincidence, and they'll come for you too."

"I can't leave," I croak. "I need to stay here in case Wes comes back."

"He's gone, Honour." Dalmar's voice is careful, slow. "He was listed as dead yesterday."

Hele talks to me like I'm a spooked cat. "You're going to come home with us. You can stay at our house overnight, and we'll take you to our friends tomorrow. Okay?"

I nod. I have to grab the counter to stay upright when the room tips. "I need to get some stuff." _I can't leave_ —but I can't stay, can I? And what reason do I have to stay, anyway, with everyone dead and Tia probably on an aircraft by now.

Hele brushes my shoulder as I move past her. "Take as long as you need."

"Just not too long, alright? I don't want them finding us here," Dalmar calls down the hallway.

"What would happen if they did?" I hear Hele ask.

"I honestly don't know."

I swallow the emotion clogged in my throat and slip into my bedroom. Hele's soft voice whispers down the hall and it reminds me of my sister, hits me dead in the chest with the force of betrayal and hurt and missing her already. I don't think I can do this without her, keep going.

All I've ever known is Horatia. She's always been at my side. We've been through more houses and homes and families then I can remember. We've been in squats and on the streets. We've even slept under a bar in a rundown pub and almost got shot when the landlord found us. But all of that was okay. We could get through it because we had each other. I had Horatia.

Now she's gone.

I collapse onto the mattress, the hard floor under it sending a jolt up my spine. The pillow still smells like my sister. The tiny bear my father gave us is stuffed under it, abandoned like me. I clutch it close and curl up on my side.

I don't know when I fall asleep.

Dalmar shakes my shoulder, gently rousing me, and I cough and choke and splutter, stumbling out of a dream. Too soon, I remember, Horatia's last words to me loud in my head.

"Sorry, Hon," he says, "but we need to get going."

I swallow, ignoring the tears on my cheeks. As I push myself up my hand grazes something behind me. Paper. I know what it is without having to look, remember Tia writing when I came home from work, and I can't deal with it now.

How long has she been planning to leave me?

Dal clears his throat. "I found this bag in the kitchen. You can put everything you want to take in it."

I accept the bag and mechanically put things in. The envelope I'm not going to open. The tins of food for our futile future. The teddy bear. The ratty blanket, still smelling of her. My clothes. John's research, from the bottom of the wardrobe. My small stack of books. The letter I found hidden inside the teddy, visible through unravelling stitches. My pathetic amount of possessions—my whole life.

My breaths short, I unfold the letter and read through it three times. As the words blur through my mind, I forget that Dalmar is stood watching me and that we really _really_ need to leave this house. Eventually, my breathing returns to normal.

I did the right thing. Everything I did was for my family, to get them to safety.

To my son and daughter, whatever names they give you.

I can't tell you my name, or the name they've given me, only that I'm a wanted man because I know a secret.

States, or as I know it, America, is developing a new strain of their biological weapon. They're going to use it to wipe out the problem that Forgotten London has become. You see, some of us know what States is really like, and we remember what they've done. They're the ones behind the diseases that have killed most of our people, and they have more planned for release over the next twenty years. They can't risk the rest of the world finding this out, in case that knowledge ignites disobedience and rebellion. I'm certain my death is inevitable, and imminent, but there are others like me who have gone into hiding. They will guard this world, and rescue it when the time comes for it to fight back. Find them.

You're in danger. The latest strain in development will be so much worse than the others when it's complete—a breakthrough in biological warfare they call it. Their plan is to allow London to grow to a designated population number, to live until a designated year so America can get the most from their factories and labour, and then they'll wipe out the town with their new disease. Removal, they call it.

When you find this letter, at whatever age you may be, get out of Forgotten London.

There are diseased lands outside the town. Free lands. Go to them. Go north. There are still populated towns there at the time I write this. I pray the same applies to whenever you read this letter and you can escape. It's true what America says, that there are diseases outside the borders—failed experiments—but there aren't as many as they will have you believe, and they aren't as fatal as they seem. If you catch a Strain, the people in the towns further north will be able to heal you.

Keep this letter safe. Let it remind you what States really is. And, for the love of God, evacuate London as soon as possible. So many people will die, but you two are important. You need to survive.

I don't know the detonation date for this newest, worst Strain, but I know when it's complete, Forgotten London will cease to exist.

Get out. And as soon as you are ready, and able, unite the Forgotten Lands. Unite the island you live on. Its real name is Great Britain, the United Kingdom, and it belongs to you. You are royalty. You are both Prince and Princess, and this island, no matter how small and ruined, is yours. Use this letter as proof to anyone who may question you. They'll recognise my handwriting and its authenticity.

Stay safe, and protect each other.

I love you both.

Your father.

***

II

The Discovery of Origin

Honour

04:59. 02.10.2040. Forgotten London, Wembley Zone.

Thirty.

There are thirty of them, all lined in formation on the road where Hele and Dalmar live. They've found us—they've found me. It's time to go.

Dalmar is packing the last of his equipment into a backpack. It somehow folds flat so that a whole room's worth of computers fit into one bag. Once he's done that we're going to run.

Hele squeezes my arm. "It will be okay."

Anything I say will sound bitter and angry so I keep my mouth shut.

Dal thunders down the stairs in a black jacket and heavy boots. A strap under the thick denim holds a gun that he insisted was necessary. I don't want to think about why he'd need it.

Hele takes his drawn face in her hands and rests her head against his, whispering words too quiet for me to hear. I sling my bag of belongings onto my back and then we're moving.

I expect to leave through the back door instead of the front, but we don't use either. We go through an archway in the kitchen and down a set of worn steps that lead into darkness. I think it's a cellar but I can't see more than two steps in front of me—something that ends in me tripping over and slamming into the wall. Hele takes my elbow from then on, keeping me on the right track. It makes me wonder if she has better eyesight than me or if she's walked this path so many times she knows it like she knows herself.

"Not much further," Dal says from somewhere in front of us.

Another minute, and a blinding beam of light slices through the darkness as Dalmar shoulders a wooden board aside. I have to shield my eyes against the daylight. When our eyes have adjusted we slip into the narrow backstreet outside. Hele separates from me to grasp Dalmar's hand as we round the corner into a residential road. I know it makes me look suspicious but I can't help but glance around us, looking for Officials.

As I swat branches out of my face I swear I see black shapes moving in the park on the other side of the narrow path. I don't manage to gasp out a warning before I hear the distinctive whirr of electric guns. A blue light tears past us, taking out a large proportion of trees and leaving the smell of burning wood in its wake.

Without communication we break into a desperate run at the same time. We turn down a road lined with a rainbow of pristine terrace houses—red brick, grey brick, an orange shade of terracotta, a faded yellow, white with mahogany brickwork. It all blurs past me as I run. My chest is heaving by the time we reach the end of the row but we can't stop for breath. The blue beams of ammunition and the high pitched whirrs that deafen my ears are constant reminders of why we cannot stop running.

We stagger onto the high street of Wembley, with its eerily colourful shop fronts; remnants of a time when retail was an everyday thing that people took for granted. Their glass windows are long since trashed, and their contents confiscated or looted back when Forgotten London was first established. The signs, however cheerful and bright, have lost some of their letters. They now read "Bots", "99p sr", and "Tsco" as opposed to whatever their original names were. Down the road a yellow 'M' is hanging dangerously from metal rope, promising to fall on unsuspecting passers-by.

In the Tsco shop, a few kids have made their homes nestled behind refrigerators and debris. They won't last long. Officials don't tolerate trespassers, and all the shops are their territory. By this afternoon the kids will either be moved or dead. They should have hidden themselves better.

I can't waste another thought on dead kids. If I don't keep running I'll be a dead kid.

I struggle to keep up with Dalmar and Hele as they run hand in hand down the empty pavement. I don't look behind me now. It will only slow me down and get me shot.

A blur of blue comes down in a diagonal from above. My eyes dart to a tall, angular building as a beam of light arcs past us, reducing a lamp post to powder in the air. Hele ducks inside one of the shops, dragging Dal to take refuge behind the wall, and I clamber after them. This is a bad idea. We haven't slowed down, we've stopped altogether, and the Officials are still moving.

It isn't just guns I can hear now, but distant steps as well. We need to move. We should pass right through this shop and find a way into the street behind it. We need to move.

"Dal," Hele whispers and when her voice cracks I realise why we've stopped.

"I'm fine, Hele," he replies through clenched teeth. The arm of his jacket is scorched. The skin underneath is badly burned, bubbling, and seeping with blood and a yellow liquid I try not to dwell on. I am going to be sick. Hele's hands shake as she jerks a knife through the bottom of her shirt, ripping a wide ribbon of fabric to tie around Dalmar's arm. Her hands are shaking too badly, though, and she drops the knife.

I take the material from her and hold my breath as I wrap it around my friend's arm, tying it tightly. Dal grunts and closes his eyes but he doesn't complain once. The end of the frayed cotton is already starting to turn red but I need it to be enough to stop the bleeding. I am not letting my friend bleed to death.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Dal murmurs, closing both of his hands around Hele's shaking fingers. "And we need to be moving again. They can shoot me all they like, but I'm not having them damage a single freckle on your skin."

"Through the back," I say. He nods in agreement.

Hele whispers, "It's quiet. I don't like it."

Dal drags himself up, bringing Hele against his side with his good arm. I turn and pick my way through the store, sticking near to the wall and out of sight. We make it to the back door right as it opens and five Officials spill into the old store room. I hesitate, freezing up. Hele's hand snakes under Dal's jacket, and without hesitation she shoots each Official in their right leg with deadly precision.

"Not. Again," she says through gritted teeth. Dalmar and her lock eyes for a second before we're moving forward again. The Officials lay, kneel, and sit on the floor, scrabbling for their weapons, none of which are functional for some reason.

One of them swipes at my leg as I run and I kick the hand as it wraps around my ankle, but he only grips harder. Hele points her gun at his chest. The hand retracts and he shies away from her. Turns out the military aren't so brave without their weapons.

The light is a pale shade of purple against the dark brick of the buildings when we emerge. Rays of the sun reflect from the glass windows like beams of Official guns, but no military is here. Yet.

Dal breathes, looking at Hele with unhidden adoration, "That was brilliant. Shooting them in the leg to stop their movement, and hitting close enough to their guns that you snap the trigger. But to keep the sensor intact ..."

"Because a broken sensor sends out an alert." She's blushing a dark shade of pink. "It wasn't that brilliant."

"Guys," I say urgently. "Shouldn't we be running?"

Three roads later and the buzz of shooting has come back but it's outside and we are almost inside. In the side of a smooth, white building is the slightest crack. We slip through it and I find that it's bigger than it looks; more than wide enough to let a person slide through. When we're off the street it takes me a moment to orient myself. It's the metal grate that gives away where we are—an Underground station.

"Are we waiting it out in here?" I ask. I don't say that I think that will get us killed as much as being outside will. I don't say that the Officials will use their guns to crumble the wall to get to us.

Hele replies, "No, we're—Dal, will you stop wriggling?" She sighs as her nimble hands unwind the fabric around Dalmar's arm. She doesn't seem to be as worried about the military as she was when we were on the streets. Dal's jaw clamps down on a pained sound and Hele presses a thousand kisses to his forehead as we both refuse to acknowledge the mess that is Dalmar's arm.

"They can heal me," Dalmar says. "We just need to get there."

Hele doesn't look reassured. She keeps touching him as if he's made of cracked glass.

I pull my hands through my hair. "What now?"

"Now," Hele sighs, "we go through the tunnels."

***

Yosiah

??:??. ??.??.2040. Forgotten London, (?) Zone.

I don't know how long I've been asleep. It feels like forever.

My head is pounding.

My heart is beating fast in my chest.

I'm inside a white room—

I'm out of bed as soon as I register the unfamiliar room around me, instincts screaming at me to get out, get somewhere I know. My eyes roam the white, cushioned walls while agitated energy buzzes along my bones. I turn, assessing every wall, the ceiling, the floor, the furniture, but find now weakness. I'm trapped.

A cell. I'm in _a cell_.

My mind flashes between here and another, grey and cold stone. Not again, please not again. But in this cell, the bed, the covers, the table beside it, the worktop that runs along a whole wall—they're all white. Clinical and clean, not austere and featureless. And it's warm here, heated air piped in from somewhere even though I'd have noticed a grate or vent and taken advantage of it by now.

I'm shaking. I'm wearing some kind of flannel pants and a long T-shirt. Both white. My feet are bare. Someone dressed me, touched my skin— _they found me, they found me_.

Trembling head to toe—more fear than anger now—I stand stiff, surveying a collection of food trays pilled on the worktop. I take deep, steadying breaths, and cross to the worktop, distaste cutting through my panic at the food piled there. Cheese, meat—actual meat, not dried—a sugary confection, a white foamy drink. Luxury foods. _Where the hell am I?_

Not there, I realise, sagging in relief. I'm not back there, I'm somewhere else.

There's a door set in one of the four walls, camouflaged so well that I'd missed it in my survey of the room. I only notice it now because it slides open and a tall, white haired man enters. Old—he's _old_ , a _man,_ like those who—

I shut that thought down, needing to focus on this new threat. My bones shake harder but it's readiness now, not terror, that holds me. I draw myself to my full height, draw on Official training to hide any sign of weakness as I assess the man. His clothes are clean, devoid of any colour, and I can tell straight away that he's a doctor by the way he moves, assesses my body. He reminds me of a doctor I worked with as a medic, but this man has an unexpectedly kind face.

"Where am I?" I demand, forcing my voice to be steely—cold.

"Safe," he answers. Gentle, careful.

I doubt that. "Why am I locked up?"

"You passed out in the car on the way here. You've been asleep ever since. This is an infirmary room."

I replay my sweep of the room, accepting this. Not a cell—a ward. A fraction of fear eases but not by much. "Where is my friend? What have you done with her?"

He's hesitant. "Your friend is..."

Everything goes black and bright red all at once. The world is red. "Where is she?" I growl. I ready myself to hurt him, destroy him if need be, but he answers easily when he sees the threats in my eyes.

"She's in isolation." He takes a timid step backwards.

I hold myself back, waiting, waiting for the right moment to kill this man. I remember the gunman in the library, remember following him to a car, Miya's hand in mine, but I can't recall anything after that. I must have been drugged. And this kind-faced doctor is working with our kidnappers. I grab him by his shirt and throw him against the wall—but don't kill him. "What did you do to her?"

"She's fine, she's fine," he speaks. Not used to confrontation, clearly. "She attacked one of our nurses. She's in isolation so she doesn't hurt anyone else."

A flicker of relief in my clash of emotions—that sounds like Miya alright, and if she's herself enough to attack a nurse, she's okay. She's okay. I release the doctor but not the menacing expression from my face. "Take me to her. _Now_."

A quiet laugh startles me and I spin to face the sound, energy surging in me as I raise my fists. I stumble at the sight of a woman in her mid-thirties, dark hair cut in a jagged edge around her chin and an amused smirk on her face. She has a metal bar through her nose and a tattoo of a dove on the side of her neck. A memory drags me out of the moment, a gold bird on my sister's face as I watch her die—but I wrestle myself free of the vision as this stranger approaches me. Awareness of her thumps through me like blood, some training evident in the way she moves as she calculates what to do about me. My hand twitches.

"Calm down, Yosiah," she says, and I'm slapped in the face by another memory—Miya saying those exact words to me the first night we met.

I'm disarmed instantly.

"Where is she?" I choke on the words. "Please."

"We're not your enemies," the woman says. Her voice is sharp—offended?

"Where _is_ she?" My voice starts to rise again, my blood boiling.

The woman sighs, relaxing her stance. "She's in a room like this but with less furniture, and she hasn't stopped asking for you since she arrived. She stabbed one of our nurses in the arm because he refused to tell her your whereabouts. From then on, we left her to her own devices."

I go very still, so close to killing someone. "You haven't fed her?"

"Of course we've fed her," she snaps. The doctor edges out of the room as if I'm not marking his every move. "We've cared for her as we've cared for you."

_Why?_ "Who are you?" Don't say you're with _them_.

"My name is Alba. I'm what passes as a leader here."

"Is this a ... science base?"

Her eyebrows shoot up. "No. Were you expecting one?" When I don't answer she says, "It's a rebel base."

I blink, struggling to process this. I know there have been pockets of rebellion—being a medic in the military, even for a short time, taught me that—but this seems ... organised. They have doctors, medical rooms, isolation rooms. _What the hell?_

Why am I here? What do they know?

"Take me to her." My voice cracks no matter how hard I want it to come out. " _Please._ " I don't want to kill anyone—I've never wanted to—but now I want it even less than I want answers.

Alba nods. "Follow me.

***

Branwell

??:??. 02.10.1878? London?

I'm smothered by darkness. My arms are out at my sides, grasping for Bennet. She's here somewhere, I just have to find her.

The blackness releases its hold on me silently and I groan as I'm thrown onto a white, tiled floor. There's a thrum of noise around me, voices that rise all at once from murmurs to shouting. Hands grip my shoulders my stomach tips and threatens vomit as I'm pulled to my feet. Manhandled. Bennet was right—we walked right into the Olympiae stronghold and now their men have me. _Us?_ I look around for my sister but I can't see past the bodies grabbing me. Their hold is painful, fingers digging into my shoulders, hands restraining my own. Somehow my arms are pinned behind my back and I struggle to breathe, to think, panic blurring my mind when I realise I cannot move.

Helpless and caught by the men who murdered my father. I'm going to be killed too. My stomach clenches—I really am going to be sick. The men holding me must see it because most of them take several steps back as my gut clenches and I retch, throwing up my meagre lunch.

I wipe my hand across my mouth, my eyes finally sharpening, and now I can see past the men—and women and people my own age—around me. My eyes dart around the settees and tables of the unfamiliar room, scan every face. My tender stomach flips and I retch again but nothing comes out. Bennet's not here. _She's not here._

My fingers begin to shake in whoever's grasp they happen to be restrained in.

"Who the hell are you and how did you do that?" This comes from a tall, dirty-blonde man several years older than me. His face is twisted into planes of shock and suspicion, an expression altogether threatening and chilling. There's something _off_ about him, about all these people but I can't place what.

"Do what?" I gasp, straining to look behind myself. She has to be here somewhere—in another room maybe.

"Appear out of nowhere like that."

I can't tell this stranger about the bracelets. If I do, The Olympiae Club will find out that I kept some of my father's inventions. I don't want to think about what they could do with this technology.

"I don't know," I say, and it's not a lie. I _don't_ know how I'm here. I know that the bracelets brought me but not how they function.

"You don't look military," a short girl comments. Her hair looks like hay. A yellow cloud around her pretty face.

"I..." I look between the two of them, confusion clearing my sinking panic for a moment, scattering the one thought in my head— _where is my sister?—_ and making room for questions upon questions. "Why would I be military?"

"What else would you be?" the man asks, gripping my hands tighter behind my back, my shoulder straining, close to pain.

"I ... I am a boy." A rapidly panicking boy who has lost his sister and fallen alone into enemy territory. "Please. Let me go."

"Look at his eyes. They're honest. He's as confused as we are." The girl smiles slightly. "I think you're from the streets and you've come to join us. But ... you don't look like you're from the streets. What are you wearing?"

That's it—that's what's off about these people. Their clothes—thin material but layers, shirts over shirts under jackets under coats. I knew America would be different but not this different. My Aunt Emily's been to America and she never mentioned they wore clothes that different to ours. And—

I'm supposed to be in America, at the Olympiae headquarters there, but these people have British accents, most close to my own even if their words have been smoothes and sawn at the edges, more common that upper class. Where _the hell_ am I?

I take in my surroundings with new, confused—yet endlessly curious—eyes. "Why would I have come to join you? Who are you?"

I don't need their answer, of course, just their confirmation. I know these are the members of The Olympiae Club. It must be a different, bigger building than the one I found with my sister and cousin. It has to be—there's no other explanation. I'd expected the members to be older, but I overlook the obvious problems—the absurd clothing, the empty décor of the room, the way these people look something ... other. They have to be the Olympiae—who else could they be?

The girl says, "We're The Guardians."

"You're not the only one who's tried this." The man glares, his eyes full of malice and something else—protectiveness maybe, over the girl. Over someone else in the crowd huddles around us, all of them angry, confused, alarmed? "You infiltrate our base and think it gives you a one-way pass to Guardianship."

_Guardianship?_ The Guardians? Is that another name for The Olympiae Club, a smaller sect of them perhaps? But I'm lying to myself now and I know it.

I take a stuttering breath and ask the question I least want to. "You aren't The Olympiae Club are you?"

Their confused glances tell me everything I need to know. Panic clutches my lungs. I suddenly understand the way Bennet feels when the world gets too much for her, when she loses control of her body.

"I'm in the wrong place," I tell them, the words wobbling. I want to fight my way out of the man's grip and run but what's the point? I'm in the wrong place, Bennet is gone, and it's hopeless. "I'm not supposed to be here." Tears prick my eyes.

The hands holding me back are suddenly gone, my body released. I want to sink to the floor, but I force my unsteady legs to hold me up. The man's voice has lost its hard edge. "Where are you meant to be?" he asks.

I scrub my hands over my face, my shoulder barking in aching discomfort now it's freed from the taut hold. I should lie but what's the point? What's the point in anything anymore? I want to curl into a ball and sleep the world away. "I was supposed to be in The Olympiae Club's building in America."

The girl is still looking at me sadly. "I'm going to tell Alba," she says to the man, and then to me: "I'm Samantha Bryall. What's your name?"

"Branwell," I say. My mouth is dry; my cheeks are wet. "My name is Branwell Ravel, and I think that I am lost."

***

Yosiah

10:42. 02.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

Alba tells me that I'm in an underground bunker in Edgware Zone but she won't explain why her people—the Guardians—need to be underground in a bomb shelter, since it's obvious what this is.

I pass a clock on our journey along cold, white corridors, and discover that fourteen days have passed since I last saw Miya in the library with the gunman. Fourteen days. It's the nightmares that stalk my sleep but in real life. Me locked in a room, tormented, Miya kept far away from me. I need to see her. _I need to see her._

We walk. And walk. And walk.

"The infirmary is at the opposite end to the residential block," Alba says, breaking a heavy silence.

Residential block? Shit, how big is this operation? "How much further?"

"Just a little."

I get the feeling I'm being led to a firing line. I'm being leg to my death. My breath scrapes up my throat; nervous readiness pumps through my blood again,

Two turns later and I'm planning the most effective way to escape when Alba stops in front of a high wooden door. White paint is peeling in places, dark wood visible like streaks of lightning. I watch her every tiny move, aware of how quickly she could try to shove me inside and lock the door behind me. Alba removes a key from a pocket; it rattles in the lock.

"Where is he?" someone screams from inside the room.

Feral. Frightened. _Miya._

The wire around my heart loosens; I can breathe properly again.

Alba swings the door open. She has no time to react as Miya launches herself towards the older woman, the spoon in her hand brandished like a dagger into Alba's ribs.

Alba barks with pain, curses threaded through the sound.

Miya raises her hand to attack again, her features wild and bestial—

And then she sees me, her body stilling as her eyes fill with hope, disbelief, and finally settle on relief. The spoon, a ridiculous weapon, drops from her fingers, and then she's pouncing on me and we're falling to the floor. I bind my arms around her and swear I'll never let anyone separate us again.

"I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead," she whispers.

She's shaking everywhere. Her chest is stuttering.

"I'm here," is all I say. And it's all I need to say. Whatever was holding her together fragments and she turns into an angry, creatively swearing, stammering mess. Her nails bite into my arms. I'm drowning in the salt of her tears and so, so happy. She's holding me as if I'm not real, as if I'm going to disappear any time soon.

I don't think she'll ever let go of me again.

In the back of my mind I hear someone talking in rushed whispers to Alba about a boy needing to be detained. I think maybe they're talking about me, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters now. Let them try to take me. They won't like what happens.

***

Branwell

11:01. 02.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

Samantha Bryall shows me into a sitting room scattered with white furniture and subdued grey armchairs. Everything here is clean and cold, like a hospital. She offers me food and a drink from a metal tin but I refuse both. I am not staying here long—just until I've spoken to this Alba person. If anyone knows why I am here, it will be her.

As I wait, I watch the open doorway and the people passing by. I notice that every person wears grey or white clothing; short sleeved shirts made of cotton and trousers made of a light fabric. It's strange. They talk unusually too, using certain words that are foreign to me. And their devices—the things that litter some of their hallways, like the flat, coloured glass with its flickering images—are impossible to understand.

"I don't have time for this," a woman remarks, walking into the room and slamming the door behind her. She's a work of art—abstract and unknowable. Her hair is shorter on one side than the other, her features are made of sharp angles but her lips are softly curved, and a metal ring hangs from her nose. She is completely new, and she's the final piece in my realisation. I am far from home. All at once my father's note makes sense. It said wherever and _when_ ever I needed to go. I am sure that this is not my time. Somehow, impossibly, it is no longer 1878.

I ask Miss Bryall, "What date is it?"

"The second of October."

I shake my head impatiently. "But what year?"

"It's ... twenty forty," she says. I intake a sharp breath. "Why? What year did you expect it to be?"

"Eighteen seventy eight," I whisper. "That is the year it was when I left, when my sister and I ..."

"Okay," the newcomer says sceptically. "Start talking."

I shake my head. I have too many questions to be giving her answers. "Who are you?"

"My name is Alba."

"The leader here?"

She shrugs her shoulders, and the tight material of her shirtsleeves moves as if it is one with her body. "If you want to call me that, yes."

"Where am I?"

"You're in Forgotten London. Where else would you be?"

"Why is it forgotten?"

"It just is. It's a name. Now, enough of your questions. Tell me your name, and where you came from. And don't lie. I can see straight through deception."

I chew my lip. There is no point in keeping the truth from her when she is the person most likely to know where my sister is. "I am Branwell Ravel. I came from London, but it was not the year twenty forty when I left—it was eighteen seventy eight. My sister and I used these bracelets." I pull up my sleeve to show the metal band around my wrist. "They are devices, mechanical creations, though I am beginning to wonder if a sort of magic isn't employed in creating them. My father invented them, you see, and he said that they would take us wherever we needed to go. We thought it would take us to America, but—"

"Stop," Alba interrupts quickly. "Did you say America?"

My brow furrows when I look at her. "Yes."

"How do you know about that?"

"Whatever do you mean? Everybody knows about America. The States were discovered some time ago."

She looks at me for a long time, measuring me with her stare. "And America has been dissolved for twenty five years. Nobody remembers its name, or that it ever existed. The America we know now is called States. How do you know about it?"

A cold hand seizes my heart and my mind trips over itself as it connects the crooked edges of my thoughts. "This is the new world."

Samantha Bryall and Alba stare at me blankly.

"It is, isn't it?" I go on. "This is that diabolical new world in all actuality."

"What are you talking about?" Alba looks at me as if I am radiating lunacy. I suppose I am.

"You don't understand. There was a ... a despicable man. He stole a device of my father's and—this man—he had another called The Weapon. He said that he was going to use it to destroy the Earth and create a new world for himself and his people."

"His ... people?" Alba enquires, sitting straighter. "Did these people have a name?"

"Yes," I breathe. "They were known as _The Olympiae Club_."

She inhales sharply and looks at me in a new light. "Take him to one of the interrogation cells," she orders a man that I did not notice standing in the corner of the room.

Before I know it, my arms are being seized and pinned behind my back—yet again—and a muscular man is pushing me out of the room and down another clinical corridor. Down and down the white hallways he pushes me until at last we reach a wooden door set back in the wall. There are no bars in the door but it feels like a dungeon cell.

"Have I committed a crime?" I ask the man who urges me inside the room.

He looks at me with honest eyes. "I don't know."

Before I can ask another question the door has shut heavily and loudly, and I am left in isolation to contemplate everything that has gone wrong.

***

Yosiah

12:07. 02.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

We are sat on a velvet sofa. Around the room are drape curtains, fur rugs, fancy cushions, ornaments, a gold chandelier, and a strange six foot statue of States's President with his dog. A red scarf circles his neck, and the dog has a flat cap on its head. I hate this room.

"I know what you're thinking," Alba says with a smile. "You're thinking how horrible we are, how disgusting we are because of all the money and luxury items we have."

I clench my jaw.

"It's stolen."

I must have heard her wrong. Nobody could steal this many luxuries. "What?"

"All of it. Everything we have here is stolen. We have little to no money. It is all stolen from the privilege of States." She grins. "We like to think of it as liberation."

"Everything you have here is stolen?" I ask slowly. "Even the people. Is this what you do? Pick people out of their lives and make them live here?"

A deep sigh. "Nobody is making you stay here."

"I beg to differ," Miya remarks. The words lure a cough from her throat and she reaches for a glass of water. She takes a drink and spits it out. "What the hell is that?"

"Champagne," Alba says blandly.

"What?"

"It's a ... expensive drink. Never mind." She pushes a jug of clear liquid across the silver table we sit around. "This is water."

Miya tips the jug toward her lips and swallows greedily. I am seriously worried about her. They've starved and dehydrated her by the looks of things. Or maybe she's done it to herself—I know how stubborn she can be. Either way it's a miracle she is still alive.

"I meant for you to use a glass." Alba tuts.

I direct the full force of a glare at her and she shrinks back.

"What do you want us for?"

Alba thinks about it for a moment. Miya drains the jug.

"I want you to help us. Both of you."

"Help?" Miya spits in outrage. " _You kidnapped us!_ No chance. We're leaving." She stands abruptly.

"How would you like the chance to bring down States? To take back everything that is owed to you, everything that is kept from you—everything you deserve?"

Miya sits back down. "Talk."

"My name is Alba. I'm going to help you, to help everyone. The reason I brought you here is because the military ordered a hit on you."

"What?" I splutter. "Why? What do they know?"

Miya's hand seeks my wrist and squeezes tightly.

They know who I am. They've found me. They're going to kill me.

"It's ... complicated."

"You'd better start talking, then," Miya grinds out and I manage a smile. She sounds like the old Miya. My Miya.

"It's to do with your involvement with Honour Frie."

"What?" Miya and I say at the same time.

"He's caught up in something. I can't disclose exactly what at the moment, but I can tell you that his situation is precarious, and that he's the core of something that goes out for miles and miles."

"What did he do?"

"Nothing," Alba says sadly. "He is caught in the middle of a tornado, but he's innocent."

I ask, "Then what do we do?" I have a growing feeling that I have known this for some time. My instincts have been telling me that something was wrong with Honour and his family, long before they died and the Officials overturned their home.

"I'm afraid ... we can't do anything. We have to wait for him to come to us. He isn't alone, though. There are two of us keeping a close eye on him. His friends. They will ensure his safety."

"What do you mean 'us'?" Miya narrows her eyes to a half-glare. "Who are you?"

"We are The Guardians." Alba smiles. I notice for the first time that the left side of her hair is longer than the right.

"Guardians of what?"

"Of the future. Of humanity."

"O—kay. This isn't my thing, this save the planet crap. Or Siah's. We're gonna leave."

Miya hauls me up by my arm and begins towing me towards the door.

"You don't know how to get out," Alba remarks. She sounds amused. "And if you do get out, hundreds of military will be waiting for you."

Miya stops but doesn't turn around.

"We can stop this," Alba goes on. "The destruction you live in. The Strains. The solar flares. The violence. The rationing. The containment. None of it needs to go on. It should have ended years ago. Well—it should never have started in the first place, but that's beside the point. You hardly like living on the streets, scrounging for food, participating in bar fights to get enough money to live, do you?" I watch Miya's eyes trail over the scar under my jaw. Her fingers twitch. "You shouldn't have to. States has all the money, all the food, all of the things we produce, everything _we_ should have."

My voice is quiet. "What about Bharat?"

"Oh, them." There's a smile in her voice. "They agree with us. They're our allies."

Miya spins around so fast I swear she's pulled my arm out of its socket. "You have Bharat as your allies? A whole City? But that's ... millions of people."

Alba smiles smugly. "Nine hundred and sixty million at the last census. Impressive, aren't we?"

"How?"

"Do you think nobody else has noticed how out of control States has become? They're destroying The Forgotten Lands one by one. Last week Forgotten Cairo disappeared. A whole town—vanished. States did that. They used some kind of bomb. Our contacts in Cairo saw them put it underground. A week later the town was gone. We thought it would be some kind of new monitoring system. None of them managed to get out."

"What about us? What about Forgotten London?"

"We're safe. For now. Nobody has been digging underground, don't worry." Alba pauses, looks at us sympathetically. "Do you still want to go back out?"

Miya says nothing.

"I didn't think so." Alba smiles, compassion in the creases of her skin. "I'll show you to your rooms now."

"Rooms?" Miya whispers with wide green eyes. "Shouldn't we be sharing a room?"

"Oh. Are you a couple? I should have guessed with you mauling each other."

"No," Miya rushes to correct her.

"We're friends," I say.

"Then what is the problem with having separate rooms?"

"It just seems ..." Miya struggles for words.

"Wasteful," I supply. Miya squeezes my wrist.

Alba shrugs. "You can share a room if you want. It makes no difference to us."

Miya's quiet for a moment and then she asks, "How many Guardians are there?"

"In this base? Over a thousand."

I choke on a breath.

"In total? Almost a million. With Bharat?" She closes her eyes, calculating.

"More than States?" Miya asks in disbelief.

"No. Not more than States. They have military in every corner of every town. Even in the places most of us have forgotten about. But we have more than enough for a fair fight." Alba smiles wryly. "I say fair, but we fight dirty."

Miya scowls at the statue of the President. "Are we ... Guardians now?"

Alba laughs. "No. If you want to join us, you'll need to be trained and taught everything we know. It's not a fast process, and neither is it easy. There will be days when you fall asleep in the library and others when your body is so tired you cannot sleep. But eventually ... yes. I'm hoping you two will be among the best of us."

"Why us?" I feel panic taking hold again.

"Because you are different."

"Why?"

"Can't you take my word for it?"

"No." Miya stands taller, gives Alba the death glare she reserves for the lowest of all people, and runs her thumb over the veins on the inside of my wrist. I'm calm for a moment. "No, we can't take your word for it. Now tell us why you wanted us here so badly you had to threaten us with a gun against my head."

"We think you're immune."

"Immune?" Miya sneers. "Immune to what?"

"The Strains, of course. We think you and Yosiah are immune to _The Sixteen Strains_."

***

Honour

12:25. 02.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

I used to wonder what the Underground stations looked like inside. I thought they might be crumbling and damp, but it turns out they're perfectly sound. The walls, up to a certain height, are tiled in red and black—suspiciously States's official colours—and above us are great stone arches. There are so many twists and turns and weird metal stairs that lead us down mountain-like heights and place us on dubious precipices that I get a headache. More than once I've thought I was going to fall, that the height would overwhelm me, but Hele's coaxing has kept me moving.

I was right, though, with what I thought when I was younger. These buildings are newer than the others—they've been upgraded or rebuilt, and only States has the money to do that. I don't know what they want them for, and that worries me.

We walk along the train tracks, inside the tunnels, and the darkness is close to claustrophobic. A torch that Dalmar brought is the only thing that stops me tearing my hair out.

Tia's gone.

I want to know why she left me, where she is, and how she knew that Official. I want to know _how_ she could leave me. I could never leave her, no matter what.

I want to tell her about the letter from our father. I should have told her.

All the time I spent planning our escape, breaking fences and blowing up electric boxes, I should have been spending time with Horatia, telling her that I loved her and showing her the letter from our father.

I've wasted so much time.

It takes two hours of wandering the tunnels, every so often coming out into weakly lit stations where we're fenced in by platforms, to get to Edgware—where Dalmar said his friend would meet us. Dalmar navigates the tunnels like he's travelled this way his whole life. He knows where to go when the tracks branch off in two or more directions. He knows the way to Edgware without having to look at a map or go aboveground to see where we are. It makes me wonder about my friend, about what else I don't know about him.

When we walk into the station at Edgware Zone, I have to blink three times to convince myself I'm not hallucinating. On both tracks in front of us are trains. Until I clamber onto the platform I don't see how long they are. Each train has at least ten carriages; they run the whole length of the platform and disappear into the tunnel at the end of it.

Dalmar catches my confused stare and laughs. "The Guardians had these long before States took over."

While walking through the tunnels, Dalmar explained to me about The Guardians and what they stood for. He said that they're working on getting everyone away from States's control. I think that's an impossible thing, but I like the idea of it all the same.

I was told The Guardians are older than Forgotten London itself and that they've been working against the military since before I was born. That's why here is the safest place for me: because they hate the military and the military wanting me dead makes me their ally.

I glance at the trains again. "But ... why?"

Dalmar lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. "You never know when you might need something like them. I don't know how many people they can carry, but it's quite a few."

"You said you were working on getting out ..."

His smile is bright in the gloom. "It's one of a few ideas. The Guardians will get us to safety when we need them to. They might use the trains, they might not, but it never hurts to have them here waiting."

"Don't the Officials know they're here?"

He snorts. "No."

"They don't come down here at all," Hele explains. "They do go into some of the Undergrounds, but not this one."

"Why?"

She makes a face. "We don't know."

"I think it's because of the military HQ here," Dalmar explains. "They don't need to check the Underground because they know everything that goes on aboveground."

"Or maybe they don't want to come across the monsters in the dark," a new voice says. I strain my eyes to make out a shadow leant against the wall beside a sign that says Edgware Road.

"Timofei." Dalmar grins. "I thought you weren't here for a minute."

The shadow pushes off of the wall and comes towards us. In the glow of Dalmar's torch I can see that he's as tall as a giant and that he has long, dark hair. There's an indentation in his bottom lip that I think might be a scar.

"This is Honour?"

Dalmar nods. "It is."

"Well, come on," Timofei says, "let's go somewhere we can see."

14:40. 02.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

Timofei disappears back into the shadows, leaving us without a guide, but Dalmar and Hele know the way. They lead me through an opening to our left and I notice that the walls here are made of the same half-brick-half-tiling that the Hammersmith station had. The slices of daylight that cut through the ceiling and onto the platform have gone, and we're seeing, again, by Dalmar's torch.

"These tunnels never used to be here," Dalmar tells us as we navigate the maze. "Neither did the ones at Hammersmith. The stations closer to Underground London Zone had tunnels but these outer ones didn't. So the military built them." He scratches his head with his torch-hand, throwing shapes off of the overhead arch. "We haven't found out why yet."

"Do you think they built them for a reason?" I ask. "They must have some use for them. It doesn't make sense otherwise."

"Probably. That must have fallen through, though—the stations have been abandoned for twenty years."

"I still think that some of the Officials use them to get around Forgotten London," Hele says in her always-gentle voice.

Dalmar shakes his head, a tight look on his face. "There would be signs of use."

There's another high mountain of metal stairs like the one in Hammersmith, and by the time we ascend them I catch Timofei's shadow vanishing around another corner.

When we emerge into daylight it burns my eyes and I have to snap them shut. Hesitantly, I open them again. I discover that we've come out in a small, open room. Directly in front of us is ... I'm not even sure what they are. Stubby metal statues. Bollards with window shutters.

"Ticket barriers," Timofei clarifies when he sees me looking. He has a bitter smile on his face. "You used to have to buy tickets to ride the trains. We don't know what these are, though." He taps a round circle on top of one of them. "That's a mystery."

"Why are they still here?" I ask, walking through the barriers.

"Maybe the Officials couldn't be bothered to tear them down. Maybe they thought they'd deter us." He grins savagely. "They didn't. After a while we pried the doors open and walked right through."

I'm stunned. "And the Officials didn't see you, or stop you?"

He barks out a laugh. "There aren't many Officials out here anymore. Or, at least, there aren't many Officials allied to the military."

"Most of the Officials here are Guardians," Dalmar says.

"Are _you_ a Guardian?"

He nods. "Both me and Hele are."

I look over to where Hele is inspecting a glass window in the wall. Instead of looking out onto the street, behind it is a messy office. "I guess I ... kind of worked that out."

He nods, calls to Hele, and waits for her to return to his side.

"The hell happened to you?" Timofei demands, his eyes on Dalmar's arm.

"I got shot," Dal says plainly.

Timofei drips sarcasm. "I can see that."

"You'll be able to heal him, won't you?" Hele's eyes are wide with worry.

"I can heal him. Don't worry about that. Worry about going out." He takes a deep breath. "You two—usual rules. We're using entrance three. And you, Honour—stay close behind me, stick as near to the buildings as possible, and for the love of God don't draw attention to yourself. I'm not having a repeat of last time."

"Last time?" I ask.

Timofei shakes his head and shoots a withering glance at Dalmar who looks amused at first, then ashamed. "Better that you don't know."

Hele touches my shoulder. "It'll be all right, Honour," she says, and I wonder what expression I must have on my face for her to look as worried about me as she does. "We'll be right behind you."

Timofei doesn't wait any longer. He leads out of the station through a small gap in the metal shutters. I follow him as closely as I can without walking on his heels. I tense as soon as I get into the open, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up in nervous agitation, and I swear that an Official is going to catch us. I wait for it.

I don't know what illegal act we'll be charged with doing, but I'm sure it will be bad. The military wants me dead—them shooting at us this morning was proof enough.

We walk for ten minutes, taking as many side streets as possible, but we don't come across any Officials—Guardians or otherwise. Some of the streets we take are residential, with colourful, perfect houses, but none of them are occupied. Other routes we take are the back roads of shopping centres.

Timofei takes us around a corner and onto a main street. Two Officials are walking on the other side of the road but Timofei doesn't seem worried so I guess that they're Guardians.

"Our guards," he says quietly over his shoulder. "In case you were worried."

"Thanks."

We walk a short way along the road, maybe a minute or so, before Timofei stops abruptly outside an old pub called _The Railway_. He waits for Dalmar and Hele before he shoots around the back of the building.

It's a nice building really—white and black striped like some old buildings in other zones, but it's clear that it's been shut down for a long time.

Timofei takes a key from his jacket and I shoot Dalmar a questioning look but he shrugs. Where the jagged edge of a key normally is are two sets of teeth that mirror each other. Timofei slides the key into a lock on the door, and he turns it first left and then right. I don't expect it to unlock, I don't understand how the door could ever open, but it does.

"Weird key," I mumble as I step through the door Timofei holds open. Dalmar and Hele hurry after me before Timofei swings the door shut with a reverberating bang. A quiet click is followed by a burst of light. The back of the door, where the outside had been aged wood, is thick with metal, and a box juts out where I assume the lock is.

I turn, slowly, and take in the room. I'd expected old wooden tables and a bar but the walls are coated in silver, and apart from a few clinical tables the room is bare.

"Homely, isn't it?" Timofei snorts. "Welcome to Guardian décor. You get used to the lack of ... everything."

"Really?" Hele asks on a laugh. "I never have."

"You haven't had the pleasure of living here yet. It gets worse—it gets white, and white, and uh ... white."

"Yet," she repeats forlornly. "We have the pleasure now, don't we?"

Dalmar's hand seeks Hele's and he pulls her so that no space is between them.

"Wait," I say, "are you guys living here now?"

Dalmar answers. "It's not safe for us to be aboveground, and I don't want to risk anything happening to Hele."

"And I don't want to risk anything happening to him," Hele adds.

"This ... isn't because of me is it?" I ask warily. "Because if it is, I never meant to make you lea—"

"Honour, that's not necessary." Hele hugs me with one arm, bringing me into her and Dalmar's embrace. "We were unsafe anyway. The military found out about us two days ago."

"So it _is_ my fault."

"They found a trace on my computer from all the confidential records I'd hacked," Dalmar says in a flat tone. "It was my fault, not yours."

"Actually," Timofei says, leaning against a wall. "If you're going to blame anyone you can blame the military. If they didn't restrict our lives there wouldn't be an underground rebellion, you'd never have allied with us, and you'd never have been searching their systems in the first place."

Dalmar snorts, separating himself from Hele and me. "Your logic is so screwed up, Tim."

"And yet flawless." He grins. "Come on, I'm bored of listening to this. You're a depressing lot, you three."

He pushes off of the wall, pivots on his heel, and pushes a string of digits into a keypad. As soon as his finger hits the enter button, a portion of the wall slides down and disappears into the floor revealing a white corridor. It also reveals a girl running down the clinical corridor towards us. She stops dead when she notices the open doorway.

"Timofei," she says, breathing heavily. She pushes the mass of blonde curls that have fallen into her face away in irritation. "Where have you been?"

"I went to get them," he answers, nodding to us.

She tilts her head in confusion. "And what about the rest of the time?"

"That's none of your business," he replies, defensive. "What're you doing running down here?"

"Looking for you." She notices the rest of us then, and her bright green eyes fix on us all in turn. She makes a face when she looks at me. "I don't know you."

"Don't be so nosey," Timofei says, tapping her nose with a finger. He strides down the corridor and we move after him. When we're clear of the door it slides back into place with a loud thud.

"Won't people outside hear that?" I ask.

"Nope," he replies without turning around. "Soundproofing. Now, Marrianne, I'm guessing something has happened while I've been gone ..."

The blonde girl takes a deep breath and launches into it. "A boy appeared out of nowhere in our base, literally _appeared out of nowhere,_ and started talking about a lot of stuff I didn't understand. And that guy that's been in the infirmary for ages woke up." Timofei stiffens at that, his spine going rigid. Marrianne doesn't notice. "And that crazy girl that came with him is apparently not crazy anymore. And we got a message through from Bharat, not that it says anything worrying but still."

Timofei groans. "I leave for one afternoon and everything goes to shit."

"You know we fall apart without you," Marrianne says, bumping her shoulder with his.

"Don't I just," he laughs, walking faster.

***

Branwell

08:46. 03.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

I awake with a start to a hand on my shoulder and something tickling my face. My eyes fly open. I am about to lash out and defend myself but it is a girl who has woken me. Her hair hangs into my face.

"Sorry," she says in a soft voice as she sits back. She smiles shyly. "I didn't mean to scare you. Someone said you might need clean clothes, and I brought breakfast."

I sit up slowly. My back throbs and my shoulder aches. "Thank you," I say, accepting the clothing.

She smiles wider and brushes blonde curls from her face. "I'm Marrianne."

"Branwell Ravel," I reply. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Are you all right?" she asks, wrinkles of concern between her brows. "Everyone thinks the military sent you, but I think they're wrong. It sounds like you've been through hell and back to get here."

"I'm fine. Is there any word on my sister?"

Her green eyes flash with something that I can't determine. It could be confusion but it looked, for a second, like anger. "Your ... sister?"

"Yes. We ... travelled together. But we did not arrive together. Has she come to this place during the night?" I chew my lip with worry as my heart increases its beats with fear. What if she never arrives? What if she is lost forever?

"Oh." Marrianne frowns. "I'm sorry, but you're the only person that came."

I nod, disappointed. "I had thought as much."

I make a start on the food she had brought me—toast and orange juice.

"I don't understand how you got here," she says, gripping her fingers. "How did you do it?"

"I didn't do anything. I simply placed a bracelet on my wrist and was brought here."

"This bracelet," she says with bright eyes. She touches the bangle laid beside my pillow.

"Yes," I say hastily, batting her hand away from the metal band. "I would refrain from touching it. It could be dangerous. I have no idea how it works or what its capabilities are, and, for all I know, it has a hidden function that kills its wearer."

She tilts her head to the side with curious eyes. "Then why did you wear it?"

"Desperation."

"I just want to hold it," she insists. Her voice is innocent and the slightest bit whiny. "I promise not to wear it."

"You have to understand," I say, "that my sister is lost, and that this piece of jewellery is my only hope of being reunited with her. I am sorry, but I cannot allow a single person to touch it. It's not only you. I am ... protective of it."

"I do understand that. I was only curious."

I grimace. "I'm sorry. I am not usually so disagreeable. I like to think that I am quite friendly, but being away from my home and separated from Bennet—it's toying with my mind."

She smiles and glances at the clock on the wall. Nine O'clock. "It's okay. I have something to do. Have a good day."

"The same to you," I reply.

By now my toast has gone cold but I eat it regardless. The clothing Marrianne has given me is white, my least favourite colour. White trousers that look to be a little too wide for my hips, a white short-sleeved shirt in a flimsy, thin material, and a white woollen jumper. I wonder at everything being devoid of colour, but I dress myself in the clothes anyway.

I feel and appear to be an entirely different person once I am changed. My familiar dark clothes are gone with the Bran that had family and friends and happiness. Now I am nothing but a ghost in white, locked inside a prison cell that is more like an asylum to me. I pace the floor as I wait for some miracle to bring Bennet to me.

It takes me a long time to realise that no miracle is coming, and neither is Bennet.

If I am to be reunited with my sister, I will have to stop relying on the bangle. If I am to find Bennet, I need to search for her myself. I only hope that this new phantom of me is capable of finding her.

10:11. 03.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

"What crime am I being accused of?" I ask, rubbing my eyes with the palm of my hand. My head is pounding a rhythm in my ears and I can't keep my brain from thinking about my sister.

"You're not. Yet, anyway," Alba answers. She looks tired. "The things you mentioned—America, and _Olympiae_ —it's information that nobody has access to. To know about States's former name, let alone _The_ _Olympiae_ ... you'd have to be a high ranking Official."

None of this is making sense. "An official of what? The government?" Does this woman think that _The Olympiae Club_ is a branch of the government like my father did? "It is all lies. _The Olympiae_ isn't the government at all. They're working for their own sakes, and they are not to be trusted. Their plans ... they are horrifying."

_"Olympiae_ are an old group of people," she says. "People I've only read about. How did you find out about them?"

I say bitterly, "I had the pleasure of meeting some of their members personally."

She draws in a sharp breath. "That is impossible. They don't exist anymore."

"And, I think, neither do I. Did you listen to a word I said yesterday when I spoke of how I came to be here? How I came from an earlier time? Those weren't lies. I am being completely honest. I have no reason to lie."

Alba does not look satisfied. "In that case why did you come armed?"

"Armed?" I echo.

"That thing you had in your pocket. Our technologists say it is a weapon."

My mind is empty for a moment. " _The Cure_! It's not a weapon, it is the exact opposite of that. It is a device designed to save a person's life."

Sarcasm: "Of course it is."

I chew my lip, agitation in my veins. Nothing I say will be believed by this woman or in this place.

"We tried your bracelet as well. Nothing happened."

"Because they weren't made for you," I explain wearily. "Or ... perhaps because this is where and when you need to be. You have to understand—the bracelets take you wherever and whenever you need to go, but if you are exactly where you are destined to be ... they don't need to take you anywhere because you already know your place."

"That's bullshit."

"I beg your pardon!"

Alba looks incredulous, shaking her head at me. "You believe it, don't you—that you're from the past, that you're a time traveller?"

"I _am_ from the past!" I protest. "I am not from here, that is for certain."

"I can agree with that at least."

"Tell me something," I say, and the desperate edge to my voice makes me wince. "My sister, is she here? Have you seen her at all? Perhaps you have simply not noticed her or she's in some other part of the city. Have you heard even the quietest whisper of a girl appearing from the air?"

She makes a face of irritation. "Nothing."

"Then you have to let me go. She thinks that she is strong and that she is capable of almost anything, and she really is, but she has these turns when she cannot calm herself and ... and sometimes I think that she'll suffocate herself. That her panic will kill her. I need to find her."

"Not an option."

I stand suddenly, towering over her. I'm sure my face is hellish; like that of an avenging angel. "My sister needs me, and there is no single thing—not these walls, certainly not you, _not anyone_ – that can keep me from her."

Alba watches me for an endless minute, and then she draws a chair from the opposite side of the room and seats herself in front of me. "Sit down."

I stay standing.

"I'm going to help you," she states tiredly, "but you have to help me first."

Reluctantly, I take a seat. "What do you require my help with?"

"Tell me what you know about _The Olympiae Club_."

I launch into everything, starting from my father's death and ending with my impossible arrival here. I tell her about Morelock, and George explaining to us about The Weapon. I tell her what I can remember from my father's journals. I tell her about the things we discovered in the _Olympiae_ building that night. And I tell her what the founder of _The Olympiae_ said to us and how he disappeared right before our eyes.

She listens intently, her hazel eyes calculating the truth of me. Finally, I feel my muscles weaken, weighted by what feels like a confession and by the pain of missing my sister. I wish she was here, not only because I am worried sick about her but because she makes me stronger.

"Thank you," Alba says cautiously. "I still don't believe your insane time travel story, but," —she takes a deep breath and forces the words out. I get the impression that I have proven her wrong and that she is rarely wrong— "I believe you're not an Official, and I don't think you came here to infiltrate or endanger us."

"I did not mean to come here."

She looks at me seriously. "I know. Listen ... The Guardians originally formed to counteract _The Olympiae Club_. They disappeared around thirty five years ago, but The Guardians never did. We think that the group had something to do with States and the solar flares, and we're waiting for them to reform. Although, personally, I don't think they ever left. I think they went underground. They'll emerge again, and we'll be ready."

She smiles and it's a smile that holds a thousand secrets. She jolts in her seat when the door is thrown open. A girl bustles through the entryway, half hidden by a stack of dusty books. She wears a pale golden dress that moves through the air like waves in water.

With a reverberating thud she sets the books on a table beside the bed before she turns, breathing heavily, to Alba.

"Priya," Alba murmurs, her mouth curved with amusement. "Is everything okay?"

"What do you mean? Oh—with me? Yes, I'm fine. He's telling the truth." She nods towards me and I sit up straight in shock.

She smiles shyly and takes a seat at the end of the bed, removing a book from the top of the pile and laying it gently across the white covers. She bends her head as she flicks through the pages and a mass of black hair falls over her shoulder and hides half of her face. She has skin the colour of cocoa and eyes darker, and with greater depths, than any I have seen before.

"Here," she says. Her voice is no louder than a whisper. If pages could speak they would have a voice like hers. " _The Myth of the Vanishing Twins_. I won't read it to you, it's quite long, but the basic story is about two children, one boy and one girl, who disappeared in the dead of night. Nobody saw them again, and even the police couldn't track them down, which back in that time was really something. The police weren't what they are now, they were a more influential and impressive force."

She draws a deep breath, speaking a thousand words a minute. I strain to catch every one of them.

"At first I thought it was about young children, maybe six or seven years old, but in this story—" She scans another book, this one worn on the edges. "It describes them as youths, and in another: 'merely adults'."

"That could be talking about anyone," Alba says gently.

"No," Priya goes on with determination, presenting yet another book. "This one isn't a fiction book. This is a book of facts and events that have been properly documented through history. It mentions an investigation into the disappearance, and that none of their family members knew of their whereabouts. One of their relatives drew a sketch for the missing persons search." She turns the book so that both Alba and I can see it. It is clearly me and my sister. _Bennet_. The next breath I inhale shudders in my chest.

"It talks about Bennet, too," Priya says, her eyes meeting mine. "About your sister."

A cold fist has seized my heart. "Does it say what happened to her?"

"No," she murmurs, biting her lip. "I'm sorry. I did try to find out, but none of our library's books mentions her."

"This is you," Alba is whispering, staring at the page. "This is ... actually you."

"Yes," I say for lack of a better response.

"But it's dated eighteen-seventy-eight. That's impossible!"

"I told you the truth, about everything. I was never dishonest."

"But this is proof," she laughs. "This is insane. You're impossible. You shouldn't be here."

"I know," I say miserably. "I assure you that I wish I wasn't."

"Don't say that," Priya says in her hushed voice. "You never know what destinies you may be meant for. You're here for a reason."

I open my mouth to disagree but I remember that the bangle brought me here, to this place, because this was where I needed to be. "You may be right."

She smiles before glancing meaningfully at her leader. "You can't keep him locked in here anymore, can you? He's not military or anything else we know. He should have a room."

"You're right. It's not like I have anything better to do than show all these newcomers to their rooms," she says with sarcasm, already halfway across the room.

It takes me a second to realise that I should be following her, and then I'm running to catch up. Priya's laugh behind me is like the sea lapping against the shore.

***

Honour

12:03. 03.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

"This isn't a good time, Tim," the woman Timofei called Alba says. She pinches the bridge of her nose and groans.

"I know," he replies, "and I wouldn't interrupt you any other time, but this is Honour Frie. I thought you should meet him."

Her eyes light with fire. "You're Honour?"

I nod, more than a little confused.

"I've been waiting a long time to meet you," she tells me. "Welcome to The Guardians' base."

"Alba." Dalmar coughs with an out of place nervousness, approaching the dark-haired woman. She's in her mid-thirties—impossibly old for someone in The Forgotten Lands. "I thought you'd better have this," he continues, placing his folded-down computer on the table she's leaning against. I expect to see him grimace in pain but his wound is entirely healed already—Guardians magic. "It has everything on it."

"Thank you," she says with a genuine smile. "You've risked a lot for us. I'm more grateful than I can tell you."

"You don't have to thank me," he rushes to say. He smiles—a shy thing that's gone quickly. I look between the two, more confused now than ever.

I say, nervous but without a choice, "Can I ... ask something?"

Alba nods.

"My sister, she was ... taken to States. I wondered if you'd be able to find her. I don't mean for you to bring her back, I can't ask that, but could you find out where she is? So that I can find her ..."

Alba's dark eyes flash. "I'm not sure that would be wise."

"Please," I say. I hate how desperate I sound, how desperate I am. "I need to know that she's all right. I don't care what she's done—she's my sister. I need to know she's okay."

"I think you will care about what she's done," Alba says, "once you find out the full extent of her actions."

"I won't. I just need to know they're not hurting her."

Her lips twist into a grimaced smile. "Oh, I don't think they'll be hurting her."

"You can't know that for sure."

"They'll be _rewarding_ her."

"I ..." I open and close my mouth. Why would they be doing that?

"You see," Alba says, "Horatia has betrayed you. She has betrayed your entire family. Why do you think they are dead?"

"No." My voice is brittle.

"She was having a relationship with a military Captain and feeding him information simultaneously. She's the reason your family died, and she's the reason you're being hunted."

"No."

"Whether you choose to believe me or not, the reality of it will stay the same. Your sister is a traitor to you. She was chosen on Victory Day so that the military could take her to their City without suspicion."

"I ... I don't care." I'm surprised to find the words true. I know she left me, and if The Guardians are right she betrayed me, but I don't care. She's my sister, my family, and she always will be. Nothing will change that, and nothing will change my love for her. I don't care if she's damned us all; I still need her to be okay. I need her to be safe. I can live with everything else as long as Horatia isn't hurt.

Alba's eyes narrow. "What?"

"She's my sister," I spit out. "She's my blood. I need to know that she's all right. _Please_."

"What good will it do?" This comes from Timofei who's watching me with an odd expression.

"I can't lose her. I've lost everyone else. Not my sister. Never Tia."

"Honour, she's gone," Alba says. Her voice is softer than before. "We can't do anything about that, and at the moment we couldn't communicate with our contacts in States even if we wanted to ask about her."

I stumble away from her, shaking my head. "There has to be something," I plead. "Please. I'll do anything."

"Hon." Dalmar pulls me away. I curse the vibrations in my chest—sobs waiting to happen.

"I'm not being cruel, Honour," Alba says. "I'm sorry."

I manage to dip my head. It's not a nod but it's close enough.

"Now leave me alone, all of you."

I turn to leave the office, Dalmar and Hele at my sides and Timofei in front of us, but Alba clears her throat.

"Tim," she says, amusement and fondness in her voice.

He spins gracefully and regards her with dark eyes and a smirk. "You did say all of us."

She groans. "Not you. Besides—you left for half of the day yesterday and your movements are unaccounted for. You and I need to have a little talk."

Timofei grins, unaffected by what has happened to my sister. "Talk? Are you sure?"

Alba narrows her eyes and I just manage to jump out of the way as Timofei kicks the door. In the small gap as the door is closing I see Alba grab Timofei and pull him to her.

"Are they ... together?" I ask Hele.

"That's a question many people want an answer to. Nobody knows, but that's their business and not ours, so don't you be so nosey."

"Yeah, Hon," Dalmar says, a faraway look on his face, "listen to your mother."

He doesn't manage to dart out of the way as Hele slaps his arm playfully. I laugh, feeling weightless for a moment before the loss of my sister returns in full force and drags me down.

12:22. 03.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

Dalmar and I sit in my newly assigned room, playing snap with an old pack of cards. It's the only game I know but Dal says he'll teach me all the ones he can play by the end of the week. He'll beat me at those too.

He sits back, grinning slowly, predatorily. He knows he's won, but he likes drawing out his victory.

"Put the card down, Dal," I say, rolling my eyes.

"I'm only making the most of your loss, you bitter harpy." He laughs, flipping and twirling his card before placing it on the top of the pile. "You don't need to be so grumpy. You never know—you might win next time."

"Doubt it." I huff a sigh. "And anyway, I have a right to be grumpy. My sister is halfway across the world with God knows how many strangers. She betrayed me and left, knowing she was leaving and not caring that she left me behind. The military here is hunting me, wanting me dead, and I don't even know why—only that is has something to do with whatever Tia said to that Official. So I think I can be a little bit annoyed about a card game, don't you?"

Dalmar looks at me for a long time and I'm about to apologise for being so down on everything when he speaks.

"Do you _want_ to know why the Officials want you? Honestly?"

"Yes," I say without having to think about it. Why wouldn't I want to know?

"It's not because you breached the border. Although, that did make you a bigger threat in their eyes."

"Threat? What the hell am I a threat to? All I wanted to do was get me and my family away. Who would that hurt? What would that threaten? Nothing and nobody." My voice turns into a growl.

"Why did you need to get away so badly?"

I think about telling him for a second. I almost show him the letter from my father and its warning, but I can't. The letter is mine and Horatia's, nobody else's. It's not that I don't trust him, but I can't tell anyone else about the letter until I've told my sister.

"We're not safe," is all I say.

He nods. "We're not."

"You were going to tell me why the military is after me."

"I don't think you're ready," he says as Hele bustles through the door carrying a tray full of food.

I want to ask him what he means, but I get the feeling it's something he'd rather tell me without Hele in the room. And the food is enough to distract me for now. I haven't eaten all day.

***

Miya

12:54. 03.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

I don't wake up until early afternoon when Yosiah collapses onto the mattress beside me.

He nudges me when I don't open my eyes. "I know you're awake," he speaks to the cover pulled over my head. "Alba sent someone to tell us we can use the library."

I groan. "For what?"

There's amusement in his voice. It sounds right on him. "Guardian training," he says.

"You can go without me."

"Miya." His hand messes my hair where it sticks out of the blanket. I pull the cover down to glare at him.

"Trying to get me to hit you?" I ask.

"Trying to get you to wake up."

"Ah," I mutter contemptuously, "so you're baiting me."

He chuckles. "Whatever works."

"So ... what are we supposed to do in the library?"

"Familiarise ourselves with the history of The Guardians."

"By ... reading?" Nervousness kicks me in the stomach. I can't read—my mother didn't bother to teach me.

"Mhmm," he murmurs. "I can read the books. You just try and find some kind of sense in it. You're good at finding the logic in things."

"Am I?"

He says, "Yes, very," and he rolls his body in a way that allows him to slip under the covers. I think he might hug me and the thought sends my heart beating twice as fast as normal out of anxiety. But then Yosiah throws the covers off of us and I'm hit by cold air.

I scramble to get the covers back but Siah kicks them off of the bed. To get them back, I'd have to get up.

"I hate you," I grumble.

"I know," he says cheerfully, and he yanks me into a sitting position. He takes me by the shoulders and pulls me up to stand.

My eyes blaze at him, but my feet slip on the smooth ground and I tumble towards the floor. He catches me, of course.

"I still hate you," I tell him as he steadies me.

He runs his hands over my hair, flattening the places sleep and his own hands have messed. "Sure you do."

I roll my eyes in a show of exasperation but I can't think. He's touching me so casually, as if this is something we do all the time, as if we don't go out of our way to avoid physical contact. I trust him completely but the touch still sets me on edge because it's out of the ordinary. It's hard not to flinch away from him.

He removes his hands and I start breathing again as he tells me, "Someone brought clean clothes for you. They're on the table in the corner."

"How thoughtful of our kidnappers."

He laughs; sharp, loud, and sincere. We're both shocked.

"You like it here, don't you?" I ask, although it's not exactly a question.

He turns his back, making a big effort of crossing the room to pick up the clothes he mentioned. "I don't _like_ it, but I feel safer than outside. And I suppose ... I believe in what The Guardians are doing—working against States."

I bite my lip to stop the smile. When it's gone, I say, "Me too. If anyone could bring States down, it'll be these guys."

"Oh no. Your rebellious side is kicking in, isn't it? God help us all."

"Shut up." I cross my arms over my chest. "You know it doesn't _kick in_. I can't turn it off."

"You're ridiculous."

"I'm ridiculous? What about you?"

"Oh, shut up and get dressed." He's grinning as he puts the folded clothes into my hands. I feel warmth on my arm and I look at it in confusion. Yosiah has a hand around my wrist. I didn't notice it happen. I wonder if he did.

"I ..." he says tentatively.

I whisper, "What?"

"I'm glad I have you." He rushes out of the room before I can say a word.

I look at the closed door, trying to work him out, but then I shake my head and get changed. I've known him years and I still don't understand him sometimes.

*

When I find Yosiah ten minutes later, after having to ask someone in the corridor how to get to the library, he looks embarrassed. I slide into a chair at a shiny wooden table.

The room makes me uneasy. Tall bookcases stand in every available space, all filled with books. I've seen something like this before, in the community library in our zone, but this place is weird. The furniture is encased in a cold stone tunnel. Above us, the room curves and it feels like we're trapped inside. The chair I'm sat in is comfy though, so I block out the ceiling and watch Yosiah read.

"The Guardians were founded in eighteen-eighty," he tells me. "In London." He looks up to check that I'm listening and goes back to the book. "The founder of the group is unknown, but people have mentioned through the years that they were young to play such a vital role in the organisation. It's assumed that the founder was male, though never confirmed.

"The purpose of The Guardians is to safeguard and protect life. In the beginning, there was a group of men who thought that for humanity to continue existing, the best method was to extract the well-bred of society. They planned to begin a new community, removing those who didn't fit a certain criteria. This was believed to be a foolish notion, and one that would not secure the continued existence of humanity but its downfall.

"These people, as a collective, were known as _The Olympiae_ _Club_ —an elite organisation with a sinister purpose. The founder of The Guardians has written in several documents that this group were in possession of a weapon of sorts, and that their aim was to eliminate those of the population who didn't meet their requirements. This particular weapon is the same machine that caused the destruction we have come to know as the solar flares."

Yosiah stops and looks up at me, his eyes wide and golden under this light. "The solar flares were caused by a machine ..."

"Machines can't make the sun flare, can they?" I rest my elbows on the table, frowning. "That doesn't make sense."

"I don't know," he says under his breath, genuinely puzzled.

"Keep reading."

"Knowing that _The Olympiae_ would inflict such a disaster upon the world, our founder made it so that a group of people existed who could counteract their actions. He knew that this group would not be able to keep _The Olympiae_ from using their weapon, and that the world would be torn apart irrevocably, but he also knew that the devastation would not stop. The founder knew that _The Olympiae_ would, again, attempt to rid the world of its people and decrease the world's population until it consisted exclusively of the members of _The Olympiae Club_. Our purpose, even now, is to wait for that time—to expect it and to rise above it.

"The Guardians will be ready when _The Olympiae_ resurfaces. It does not matter how many years it takes or how many leaders pass before the time comes. The Guardians will stop _The Olympiae Club_ and whatever further disaster they plan on causing."

"That's it?" I ask when Yosiah bows his head.

Siah chuckles. "That's only the introduction, not the whole book."

"Go on then!"

He looks down for a moment before turning the page and starting to read again.

"The question lies in whether _The Olympiae_ still exist. Many believe that the group have gone underground, much like our own group, and that they will rise again when they have perfected whatever plan they are forming. Others believe that _The Olympiae_ have what they want—power, wealth, and complete control—because what was once _The Olympiae Club_ is now the City known as States and its Ordering Body. It is unknown what exactly happened to _The Olympiae_ , but one thing is certain and that is that men like those do not back down; not even when they have what they set out to get. Men like those want more than they possess, no matter what they have. The same is true of States, its President, and their leaders. Whether or not that is all a coincidence remains to be seen.

Yosiah turns the page, not hesitating this time before reading.

"This brings us to the joining of The Guardians and the rebellion. As you will all be aware of, some years ago a rebellion raged in Forgotten London (later, in sixteen of the twenty four Forgotten Lands), led by a man known simply as The Unnamed (topic eighteen-point-one, page two-hundred-and-three.) This rebellion was short lived, and proved futile, resulting in the death of The Unnamed.

"It also led to the disbanding of the rebellion itself. Or so you have been led to believe. This is false." Yosiah looks up at me, a glint in his eye.

"After the death of The Unnamed, a rebellion member came to The Guardians with a proposition. He suggested that since both The Guardians and the rebellion had a common goal; to protect the future of our people albeit from different threats, we should join together.

"It took several months for this merging to become an actuality, but The Guardians you know now are not only counteracting _The Olympiae_ , but working to free the population from the tyrannical reign of States. Although the distinction between Guardian and rebel has since been lost, our goals have been married in one purpose, and we stand as one in the belief that not only will we one day defeat _The Olympiae_ (who may or may not be proven to be the Ordering Body of States), but we will release ourselves from our imprisonment within the borders. We will be able to live our lives however we choose and not the way States determines."

I struggle for words. "A rebellion is trying to stop the military? Trying to set us free?"

"Miya," he says warily. "Don't get too excited about this, okay? This is a Guardian book. They're bound to say things like this because they believe it. But you know States, and so do I. I want to believe that The Guardians can do what they say, but ... I don't think it's possible."

I scowl at the book. "But you said you believe in The Guardians."

He exhales sharply. "I believe in them to a certain extent. I want—" He cuts himself off and puts his head in his hands.

I'm sitting beside him before I know that I've moved. I say angrily, "It's cruel, giving us false hope like that."

He raises his head and smiles faintly. "I don't think they meant to. Miya ... I—can I talk to you about something?"

"You know you can," I say, but a girl walks into the library and I know the moment is gone. She's done nothing wrong, but I resent her immediately. Yosiah was going to open up to me about something, and she stopped him.

I glare at the side of her head and leave before I shout or hit her. Lately I've been able to handle my temper but I can feel it spiking now and I don't want us to get kicked out of here because I can't control myself. This place has beds, food, running water, and some of the common rooms are even heated. It's too much to risk.

I go back to our room and lay on my bed. I start to count the cracks on the ceiling.

16:09. 03.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

We're in a big arched hall, with slate grey mats on the floor and painted-white brick walls. It's cold as hell.

This is the next step of our 'Guardian training'—a physical evaluation. Yosiah's going first, and he stands on one of the mats, blocking an attack from an instructor. I glower at the instructor as I watch them fight. He takes every opportunity to exploit Siah's weaknesses, kicking his leg from under him every chance he gets. It takes everything in me not to jump up and help him, not to punch his attacker into oblivion, but this is his assessment. They need an honest view of Yosiah so that they can tell him how best to fight to his advantage. If I step in now I could screw up this whole thing, but it's pointless anyway. Whenever he and I fight it's together.

I groan and lay back against the mat, not watching anymore.

Yosiah drops beside me when the instructor says they're done.

"What's wrong?"

"You'll see," I say, propping myself up on my elbows. "Is it my turn now?"

"Yeah," he answers absently. He's wondering about my comment.

The instructor analyses me as I approach him. "Treat me as you would any other threat," he tells me and I do. I lash out with my fist, hitting him hard on the side of his face. He doesn't falter, but I expected him to be dizzy and that makes _me_ falter. His fist catches me above my ear. The room spins but I shake it away and narrow my eyes.

When I strike again the instructor catches my curled fingers and spins me so that my back is to him. Yosiah is beside me so fast that he blurs in front of my eyes—although that could be the dizziness.

"I think that's enough," he says tightly. His eyes are sharp and furious, and his face is hard. I want to put my fingers against his face to see if it softens under my touch.

"If I don't have a thorough analysis of her fighting style I won't be able to help her improve."

"You're going to make her unconscious."

"I told you you'd see what I meant," I say to Yosiah and he glares at me.

"Go sit down," the instructor orders. "We're almost done here."

Yosiah moves reluctantly and I take the moment to punch the instructor in the nose, dizzy or not. The movement of my body makes the room spin. The crack that echoes through the room is payback for being condescending to Yosiah. It doesn't take the instructor ten seconds to have me pinned to the floor, but I don't care. He has a decent analysis of my fighting style: hit first, think later. He can do what he wants with that.

I almost apologise to the guy once my head has stopped swimming, realising that I let my temper get out of hand, but Yosiah's sad eyes are lowered to the mat beneath him. I bite my tongue and sit beside him. The instructor wordlessly hands me a glass of water, which I empty, and a foil-wrapped bar of food, which doesn't last a second.

"I don't like this training idea," Yosiah admits with a weak laugh. "I'm not sure I can watch you fight without reacting like that."

"They won't try to hurt me, though. I think they're actually trying to help."

He looks at me slyly. "Is that why you broke that guy's nose?"

"I didn't like the way he spoke to you." I nudge his shoulder. "How's your leg?"

"Painful. How's your head?"

"Spinning."

He laughs, but it's not the free laugh he had earlier, it's strained.

"I'll take you to the infirmary," the instructor says with a displeased look at me. "I was heading there anyway."

"Sorry," I blurt out. "You know ... for your nose."

He shrugs and I think I might like him a bit more because of it. "It's happened before, and it'll happen again."

Yosiah says, helping me up, "What kind of place is this? I thought it was a ... a sanctuary of sorts."

"It is. It's a lot of things all in one."

"That's ... confusing," I say.

"Yeah," he nods. "Tell me about it. My name's Kyle by the way." He holds out a hand to Siah and I. We both shake it in turn and I feel a weird kind of friendship kindle between the three of us. And then I am reminded that I have had friends and family in the past, only to have them taken away from me. Something rips my heart. There isn't room for another person in my life, not after what I've lost. It's just me and Yosiah now.

***

Honour

10:13. 04.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

"Honour." Hele's voice cuts through my sleep.

I groan and sit up slowly, blinking until I can see.

"Honour, we need to talk."

"About what?"

She bites her bottom lip, her fair eyebrows pulling down over her eyes in a very un-Hele-like expression. "I came in to wake you up and I tripped over your bag. You left it in the middle of the room. You could have put it somewhere tidy, away from where people walk." She shakes her head. "But that's not the point. The point is I tripped over your bag and everything inside it fell out. I found the letter from your father, Honour. You need to show it to The Guardians."

I start freaking out. "I ... I—no. They don't ... _they can't know_."

"Honour," she whispers. "If you mean that they can't know about your father, they already do. They know his identity, and yours. But I meant the warning. You need to tell them about it. The Guardians have prepared for things like this. We have plans for emergencies, and _this_ is an emergency. The deadline is less than three months away, Honour. Do you have any idea how important this is?"

"No," I protest numbly. "No, that letter was for me and Tia. That warning is for us."

"And it tells you to evacuate Forgotten London! For God's sake, Honour, pull yourself together. This isn't about you or Horatia, this is about innocent people dying. Do you know how many children will suffer, how many children will die if this is true?"

"I—"

"No," she interrupts sharply. "Get dressed. I'll wait for you outside your room. We are taking this to Alba."

She leaves me no room to argue as she slams the door behind her. I don't think I've ever seen Hele angry. I stare at the door for a shocked moment before I drag myself up to get dressed. Something close to trepidation starts to fill me.

*

When Hele, Dalmar, and I walk into Alba's office she's writing furiously on a piece of paper. She looks up at our entry but goes back to her writing for two minutes. Neither Hele or Dalmar interrupt her so whatever she's writing must be important.

"What is it?" she asks when she's finished. She rests her chin on her palm and looks at us with curiosity and worry.

"Honour ... had this letter," Hele says. "I found it fifteen minutes ago and brought it straight to you."

Alba looks mildly interested until Hele says, "It's from his father." She bolts upright.

"Give it here," she commands impatiently, coming around the table to stand beside us. She reads the letter, gradually getting paler. She reads it again, and I wait with a racing heart for her to kick me out of the base for keeping it hidden. She doesn't even look at me.

She goes to a metal cabinet and unlocks it with a key on a chain around her neck. She removes a number of old-looking papers, holding my letter up to them. I guess this is what my father meant when he said they would recognise his handwriting. After a long moment of studying the papers, Alba looks up at the three of us with wide eyes and a haunted expression.

"We're done for," she says eventually.

*

Despite Alba's words, half an hour later a meeting of the Guardian powers that be is in process. She speaks slowly and calmly, informing everyone about the warning and the date my letter said. She doesn't tell them where the letter came from; only that it is authentic and that the warning it gives matches up to the suspicions they already have about the military's recent movements.

I find out that, like the Officials I overheard at work on Victory Day morning, most of the military have been making plans to leave Forgotten London. The Guardians suspect States are making moves to eradicate our town. I also find out that nobody knew _how_ States were going to do it until my letter.

The meeting revolves around the best methods to stop the Strain being released, and contingency plans to get Forgotten London's citizens to safety. There's never any talk of escape being futile or hopeless. Either Alba is keeping her fears to herself, or she's realised that we might have a chance. I hope we do. Before, when it was just about me and my family, months seemed like an endless time and the deadline felt distant and unthreatening. But now that I'm surrounded by planning and panicking it feels like there's never going to be enough time to save everyone.

But Alba goes on, regardless of my doubt. She's confident and assuring, convinced that the evacuation isn't an impossible thing. Maybe it's not impossible to The Guardians. They do have the Underground trains after all.

The problems start to come—doubts like my own. How are The Guardians going to get everyone onto the trains in the first place? And how do they get them out of Forgotten London once they're on the trains? Another problem is the electric fence, but I think to myself that I have a solution to that. I know the electric boxes can turn off the barrier. But ... more problems—someone would have to be stationed in each of the trains' destinations to turn off the fence. That would take a lot of organisation and time. Time nobody has.

"Our biggest problem," Alba is saying, "is that we have no information about how the disease spreads. It could be airborne, or waterborne, or any number of things States has developed. If we knew where the Strain originates, where it gets into Forgotten London, we might be able to track it to its source."

"So evacuation is looking like the more feasible plan?" Timofei asks. "As opposed to halting the distribution of the Strain."

He talks differently—there's no light-hearted tone or teasing now. He doesn't look like he's trying to conceal a smile. He's deadly serious. I didn't expect that from him.

Alba nods. "We shouldn't abandon the idea of stopping the Strain, but we should put most of our focus on finalising the evacuation plans we already have." She shifts her gaze to address the small crowd again. "I'll inform you of your roles in the evacuation a few days from now. Until then continue as you are if that's at all possible. We need to keep the majority of our Guardians, and the civilians that share our base, from being alarmed."

The people in the room gradually leave. I stay behind with Dalmar who seems to be waiting for something.

"Alba," he says before she can pass us by. "I've been thinking about our defences. You know the military is looking for our base, and I thought ... well I've been developing another security system for our gateways. It would take me less than a day to put into place."

Alba looks at Dalmar in shock, and then ... proudly? "Thank you, Dalmar. I would appreciate that. How long have you been working on this?"

He looks at the far wall, his eyes unfocused. "A few months. It's nothing major, but it's sophisticated. It'll take out anyone who inputs a false password more than three times. It also has a dormant defence in case someone tries to breach the outer walls. Electrocution—I used their own technology from the barrier against them."

"That's brilliant," she breathes. There's definite pride in her smile. "I'll have a few technologists go out and help you. Thank you, for everything you do to help us."

Dalmar's eyes refocus and he nods, crossing his arms over his chest. The only time I've seen him embarrassed or flustered is when Alba has complimented or thanked him. I wonder if he and Alba have ever been _a thing_.

_Maybe she's his sister_ is the other thought that crosses my mind.

"I know we haven't always ... got on," Alba continues, "but—well I—"

"I know," Dalmar rushes to say, and then he does something that shocks both me and Alba; he hugs her for a split second. "I know. Thank you," —he moves away as quickly as he had embraced her— "for accepting me, and letting me and Hele stay here."

"Of course. I'd never leave you outside when you're in danger. You should know that."

"I do. It's ..." He shakes his head. "Nothing. Thank you is all I meant. I'll go set up that security now."

I eye Dalmar worriedly as we leave the room. We turn down corridor after corridor, and I don't think he has a destination in mind. He gets to a set of white metal stairs that lead past the ceiling, and he crumples onto the bottom step. He drops his head into his hands and stares at the floor.

"Is she your sister?" I ask after five minutes of silence.

"No." He chokes on a laugh. "No, she's my mother."

By no small miracle I manage to stop the 'fucking hell' before it rolls off of my tongue.

12:47. 04.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

Hele and I sit in a large, arched room surrounded by books and mahogany furniture. It's not as impressive as the library in Hammersmith which is old and beautiful, but it has a sort of homely feeling about it, even with the tunnel walls.

"You need to keep an open mind," Hele says, twirling strawberry blonde hair around a finger with an agitated ferocity.

"I will," I tell her for the third time. "Tell me about my dad."

"Well," she begins, "this island used to be called Great Britain, or The United Kingdom."

"It said that in my letter."

"Let me finish. Great Britain, before the dissolution, had a Royal Family—a family of people, of monarchs, who ruled over it. In the past, the purpose of the Royal Family was to make important decisions for the island and ensure their people's safety. That is as much as we can gather from our books. Over time the Royal Family lost a certain amount of their influence, but they were still important, and considerably powerful. That's the first thing you need to understand."

"So ... they were like States's President and his family?"

"Similar. Less ... oppressing, but I suppose they are similar in certain aspects. Your father, as you know, was a member of the Royal Family. From what we know he was a Prince, but that was years before States, Bharat, and The Forgotten Lands were formed. After the dissolution all Royal Families, not just in Great Britain, lost their power and their name.

"On this island, though, there was one man who never lost his people's favour. That was your father. He was ... I suppose you would call him a motivator, a change-bringer."

"Is that why he was wanted?" I interrupt, slowly wrapping my head around Hele's words.

She smiles and says, "No. He was wanted because he inspired people, because he gave them hope. He made people wish to determine their own lives when States expected people to accept what they were given." She runs her fingers through her hair, sighing. "I brought you here, to the library, because I thought it'd be better for you to learn about your father in facts, rather in mine or Dalmar's or anyone else's opinion. I still can't seem to stop being biased, however." She looks at me for a long moment. "I'll tell you one thing—to me your father was a hero. A failed hero, but still a hero."

She slides a book across the table and it takes me a while to fully grasp what she's saying. On the cover of the book, in gilt writing, are two words: _The Unnamed_.

"The Unnamed was my father?"

Hele nods and grips my hand across the table. "Yes."

I whisper, "How do you know?"

"Because he left you and your sister in the care of a known member of the rebellion. He was in contact with us, the man you were left with, and your names and whereabouts were highly protected information that only Alba knew, until a month ago when she told Dalmar and I. We're still the only ones who know."

I stare blankly at the book. "That's not right. We've never lived with a rebel."

"You have. I don't know if you remember the man who looked after you, but he died when you were seven years old. The Guardians lost track of you then for a few years until you turned up in a house with John Norton. That's where The Guardians began watching over you in case you or your sister needed protection. It's how we knew when you tried to get through the borders, and when a Military Observation Order was filed on you." She laughs softly and makes a face. "I sound like Dalmar. I never say things like that."

"I know," I say with a faint smile. "Are you ... absolutely sure he was my father?"

"Yes. Not only do your birthdates match up with the day The Unnamed's wife gave birth, but your colouring—" She stops, fumbling for words.

"I get it," I say and Hele nods gratefully.

I ask, "Was my mother dark skinned? I know The Unnamed wasn't; I've seen photos of him."

Photos of him dead, I remember, photos of his body. I force back the bile that rises in my throat.

"Yes." Hele watches me with concern furrowed between her brows.

She doesn't say anything else for a long time so I ask, "What was she like—my mother?"

"Beautiful," she says wistfully, "and inspirational. Kind and altruistic. She was willing to listen to anyone. Everything I've read describes her as the most compassionate woman you could ever meet. She sounds wonderful."

"That must be where Horatia gets her kindness from," I comment without thinking. The tug in my heart silences me from saying anything else. I want my sister here. She should be learning about our parents with me.

"And you," Hele says. She squeezes my hand and I'm grateful that she's here with me. "You are kind too, Honour. More so than you realise."

I shake my head but that only makes her look at me with more pity.

"Stop looking at me like that."

"I wish I knew how," she laughs. "I feel so bad for you. You've grown up too soon."

"Doesn't everyone here grow up too soon?" I mutter. Hele doesn't reply, and she looks lost in thought so I start to read the book about my biological father. It's not thick, maybe twenty or so pages, but it will distract me from thoughts about Tia and that's all I care about right now.

I know I have more important things to think about, but I can't get away from the fact that she left me.

***

Yosiah

15:09. 04.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

We're sat in one of the common rooms, watching as people mill about outside in the corridors. After a long time of being confused about the actual purpose of The Guardians base, we start writing a list.

A home.

A safe-house for people who have nowhere else to go, are hunted by the military, or want to train to become Guardians.

A training centre.

A school.

A hospital.

A gathering of pompous dickheads. "Miya, I'm not writing that!"

A hiding place for things of both monetary and personal value. (They house not only extravagant furniture stolen from States itself, but knowledge and words in the form of books that the Officials have kept from us: words that hold the power to change us. I think that this is its most important purpose, and I hate to think what would happen to that knowledge if the base was ever destroyed.)

A prison housing Guardian traitors, as well as people who are dangerous to not only themselves but others.

It's also an entertainment centre.

My favourite purpose.

Every night, in the large hall, people sing, or act, or recite poetry, or mess around being stupid. And, although it feels weird to laugh and dance, it's a nice change from living on the streets of Forgotten London, always running from something or someone.

Last night Miya even let me dance with her for half a minute. It was ridiculous, since neither of us can dance, and she ended up almost tripping over. I'm sure we looked like fools, but for half a minute Miya smiled and I didn't care what I did or what I looked like.

In the present, one of the school lessons has finished, which leaves students with a new purpose—to either get to their next class or as far away from it as possible. One of them, a nineteen year old blond Guardian called Josh Loren, drops onto the sofa beside me. So far he's the only person who we've managed to form some semblance of friendship with. Not that it's real friendship, or any sort of bond, but I'm glad we have an ally.

"You are so lucky you don't have to do schooling," he says conversationally.

I reply, "I remember school from when I was younger. I don't think it was particularly bad."

"I never went to school," Miya adds and Josh's jaw drops.

"Ever?"

"Nope." Miya smirks. Even she likes Josh. It's a testament to him. Miya doesn't like anyone.

"You illiterate sod," he jokes, leaning across me to shove Miya's arm playfully.

Flirting.

Something cracks and a question I've had for months gets answered.

I had thought that I saw Miya as a sister.

Or a friend.

Or a platonic soul mate.

Or even a fellow fighter.

But right now I want to rip Josh's arm from his body to stop him touching her. It's not that I dislike him, or that I think he'd be a bad choice for Miya if she decided to get with someone.

It's jealousy.

So that's what that feels like.

"Oh my god!" Miya shouts and her voice is enough to drag me from thoughts of causing Josh bodily harm. She's not looking at him, though, or at me I notice with bitterness. I follow her gaze and my mouth drops open.

Honour.

Honour stood here—inside the common room—safe in The Guardians base. I can't believe it.

"Oh Jesus," Josh groans, "it's boy wonder."

"Yosiah?" Honour questions, shuffling towards us. I stand and embrace him before he can even get to us. "What are you guys doing here?" he asks.

I frown. "Long story."

"We were kidnapped," Miya adds with a casual smirk.

"What? Are you okay?"

I sit beside Miya before Josh can get any closer. The jealously is surprisingly potent.

She waves a dismissive hand. "Yeah. I mean, I almost lost my mind when I thought they'd killed Yosiah but I'm fine now. Free food—how can I complain?"

Honour smiles with understanding. "And you, Yosiah, are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

He sits opposite us and rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. "You don't sound it."

I shake my head, force a smile. "I'm not sure that I can be any level of okay now. Not when I know what States and the Officials are capable of. Not when I know what humanity itself is capable of."

"Whoa," Josh laughs. "That's a bit deep for three in the afternoon."

Honour ignores him completely. "I know what you mean. I found out that my own sister has been giving information about us to the Officials. If she can do that, anyone's capable of anything."

"Horatia?" I'm shocked. "I never would have imagined."

"She obviously had more important things to do than stay with me."

"Honour, she loves you. Her love for you is the first thing I remember knowing about her. Whatever she has done—whether it's allying with Officials or getting in with them for some secret purpose—I wouldn't be surprised to find out that she did it for you."

"I don't think so," Honour laughs bitterly. "I don't even know where she is now. Or what she's doing. Or if she's even still alive. God knows she's in enough danger."

"Danger?" Miya tilts her head. "What danger?"

"States's Ordering Body want us dead apparently. The President probably does too."

"Why would they—" I start to ask but something about the look in Honour's eye tells me it's not something he wants to say in front of strangers.

"Why do they do anything?" Miya cuts in, covering up for me perfectly. She must have seen the look too. "They do what they want and hate anyone who goes against it."

"Exactly," Honour sighs. I don't miss the grateful look he gives each of us.

Miya smiles. "Anyway, here's an update on us. Alba thinks me and Yosiah might be immune to the Strains. We're waiting for a test to be shipped here from God knows where, and then we'll know."

"Bharat," I provide.

"Weird isn't it? That we, of all people, would be immune."

"That is weird," Honour says with a smile. "I wonder who else is immune."

"Who knows?" She smiles wryly. "Maybe you."

"No. That'd be too easy. The universe hates me."

"That's true," Miya says. She snags what we're told is an 'apple' from the table in front of us. She twirls it around in her hand and takes a bite as I look at her sharply.

She grins. "What? It is true!"

***

Branwell

10:17. 05.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

It is two days before I speak to anyone again, not taking into account the one word conversations I have with the people who bring me meals. I haven't left this room, nor do I plan to—not until I have found a way to contact my sister.

So far I have failed in every way possible.

The bracelet will not take me anywhere but here no matter which way I twist it around my wrist. I can't for the life of me work out how it functions, but I assume that the mechanics of it must be inside the hollow of the metal—and the metal appears to be indestructible. It is the most frustrating thing I have ever come across. If I can't get it open I can't tamper with the mechanism that transports me, and I cannot make it take me to Bennet.

A knock on the door is the only thing that stops me from further fiddling with the bracelet. It was taken from me when I first came here, but now that Alba believes my story it has been given back to me and I've spent every minute since compelling it to work.

I expect a Guardian to enter the room with food, but it is a dark-skinned boy my age who I have not yet met. His eyes are wary but curious as he steps into the room.

He sits on a chair beside the bed I am lounged upon and notices the bracelet in my hands.

He asks, "Is that the thing that brought you here?"

"It is," I reply. I hope this isn't another interrogation.

"How does it do it?"

"I don't know." I want to know the same thing.

"I'm Honour." He sticks out a hand; I shake it hesitantly. "I heard some people talking about you and that bracelet thing. I wondered if ... if only you can use it, or if anyone can."

"Just me, I think. It has my name on it. I haven't let anyone else try it."

"Could I—"

"No," I say sharply. "Certainly not. I don't know if it's safe to use. Or if it was safe to begin with. You could be harmed."

"That didn't stop you," he laughs. He sounds bitter.

I've had this conversation three times already. "I was desperate."

"So am I," he insists. "I need to find my sister. And you can't understand, but she left me. She went off with some Official and now she's in danger. I don't know where she is or who she's with but I need to get to her."

"I understand completely," I sigh. "Believe me, I understand, but I cannot get the bracelet to work. It will not transport me anywhere now. Perhaps that is because right here is where I need to be, but it may also be broken. It's entirely possible that it was designed for one trip and one trip alone."

He looks at me with pleading eyes. "Then let me try. If nothing is going to happen it won't hurt, right?"

His hands are clasped in front of him, his entire body angled towards the bangle, and his eyes are nothing but misery and fear. "Why? Why do you want this so desperately?"

"Because my sister betrayed me, and left me, but I won't do the same thing to her. I won't let her die—and I think she might without me. People are looking for her and they want to hurt her, to kill her. I need to warn her. _Please_. I need to get her away from whatever mess she's in. She needs me."

If I were in his place, I know that I would need to do the same. I unsnap the bracelet from my wrist and reluctantly hand it to Honour. His hand shakes as he takes it from me but he doesn't waste any time in clasping it around his own wrist. We wait for three whole minutes but not a single thing happens.

He takes the thing off and returns it to me with a wretched expression on his face. He looks like a broken man. I think I understand now.

"That was your last hope, wasn't it?" I ask.

He nods glumly.

"I'm sorry. We are in the same predicament. There were two of these bangles—my sister, Bennet, used the other. We expected it to take us somewhere quite different than here. We even anticipated the bracelets' failure; that they would take us to the entirely wrong place. But we never, for a second, thought they would take us to different places, that it would separate us.

"So I know precisely what you are feeling," I go on. "Although, perhaps my situation is worse. Your sister betrayed you, but my sister was not meant to be here with me. The bracelet took her wherever she needed to be, and she needed to be apart from me. Your sister acted with her mind, with her reasoning, and that is what separates you—her conscious decision. What separates me from my sister is something in her soul, in her very being. She was not aware that she did not need me, but something buried deep inside of her was, and it tore us apart. Tell me which is worse."

Honour blinks and, bewilderingly, he grins. "I didn't know this was a pity party. If I'd have known that I'd have come here days ago."

"What are you—"

"Neither of us is meant to be with our sisters, we're both depressed and melodramatic, and the bracelets won't work for either of us."

"I don't see your point."

He shrugs. "The universe doesn't just hate me; it hates you too."

"Oh, charming."

"Misery loves company." He laughs, then fixes me with a serious look. "I'll make you a deal. I'll help you find your sister if you help me find mine."

I think about it for a second and nod my assent.

"You know that thing you're looking for—the energy thing?"

Warily I say, "Yes."

"Well—and this is only a theory, don't take it to heart—that bracelet brought you here because it's where you needed to be, right? And you were looking for the energy thing when you put the bracelet on. What if it actually took you to it—but you didn't realise?"

A thousand scenarios run through my mind. "You think it is here in The Guardians' base?"

"Not exactly," he says carefully, "but I reckon it's in our time, and in our world. It brought you here for a reason, right? And you did need to find it, didn't you?"

"Yes. I still do."

"I think it's here. You just haven't looked for it."

"No," I whisper, my heart sinking like an anchor. "No, I don't need to look for it." I clamber across the bed to the nightstand, upon which is a book about The Forgotten Lands that Priya thoughtfully gave to me. I thumb through it to a photo of the solar flare destruction. "That wasn't solar flares. Damn my mind, I should have connected this sooner! I am already too late."

Honour doesn't look disheartened. "Hey, maybe you can like ... change the future. Change the present."

"I don't—"

"Let me finish," he says impatiently, his brown eyes shining. "If you find the thing you're looking for here, and you take it back to your time somehow ... it could be completely different now."

"You're suggesting I change history?" My voice is drawling.

A devious look comes across his face and I decide that I rather like Honour. "Not completely. Rewrite it a little. It would be nice to think things could be different. You know, without most of the planet being a burned-out wreck. I could cope with that."

"I don't think that is actually possible," I say.

"It's worth a try. You're gonna get the thing and go back to your time either way, aren't you?"

"I ... I suppose I am. That was the original plan before this whole time jump travesty occurred. It is not as simple as taking the device back to my time, however. There's more than one of them, possibly thousands. _Hell_ —perhaps even millions at this point in time. God only knows enough time has passed." I measure Honour with a look. "Do you truly believe I am capable of something as superhuman as collecting that many devices and travelling back through time to my home?"

"I don't know. I think you'd have a damn good try, though. Either way, that insane plan can wait. First we need to attempt Insane Plan Number One: find our sisters and try not to die."

"Try not to die?"

"Yeah, haven't you heard? States is going to destroy Forgotten London."

"Oh Lord," I groan. "Not this again."

***

Yosiah

11:28. 05.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

I lost Miya over half an hour ago. She ran down the corridor after Honour and I haven't seen her since. I haven't seen Honour either. I wander the halls, occasionally looking into a room to see people eating breakfast, teenagers having lessons, children in a play centre that I hadn't noticed before, two boys having a strenuous arm wrestle.

After a few minutes of walking I get the creeping feeling that comes over me when I'm being followed. I change my route so that it takes me back to my room but after a minute or so someone drops from above me and I hear their feet hit the marble floor. I don't have to turn around to know who it is. I've been waiting for it. I also know who has a habit of hiding in the rafters.

I stop dead, but I don't turn.

"I didn't know The Guardians had perfected resurrection," I say, my voice shockingly level.

He speaks as softly as he used to. "What can I say, they're exceptionally advanced."

I close my eyes against the bright electric lighting, against everything. "I _mourned_ you. I thought you were dead."

"I'm sorry," he says, and at that I turn to face him with angry eyes.

"You faked your own death!"

"Not exactly. I had help."

"I thought you were dead, Timofei."

He says tiredly, "It needed to be done. You know the only way an Official can leave the military."

"Dead," I whisper. He looks exactly like he used to; tall and dark, but something has changed about him and I can't work out what it is. It starts to annoy me.

"I kept a watch on you, you know? That's how we knew you were being followed for your involvement with the Frie siblings."

"I don't care."

"Yes you do. That's your problem."

I glare at him, my anger spiking. "I thought I had killed you! My own friend! And you let me think I had."

"Oh for God's sake," he groans. "Okay, yes, that was my biggest mistake. My second biggest mistake was not bringing you with me, but you're doing all right on your own. You have a girlfriend now, and you're still alive, even after two years of being on the streets. You did fine."

"She's not my girlfriend. And I didn't do fine. I caught a Strain not long after you _died_. It wasn't bad and it didn't kill me but that's beside the point. I've almost been killed more times than I can remember, and most of those times were starving to death. Do you think that's doing all right?"

"Vi." His eyes are remorseful, his features drawn into sadness. I don't care. "You do realise I'm sorry, don't you?"

I turn away from him. "It doesn't matter."

"I missed you," he calls after me, but he lets me leave.

I run straight into Miya at a junction where one large tunnel turns into three smaller ones. At the sight of her my breath hitches and my emotions smother me. Miya has her arms around me within a heartbeat. I'm stunned for a second that Miya is hugging me, and in a public place, but Timofei's words repeat in my mind, stealing my thoughts, and I swear I can hear his voice perfectly. _I missed you_. I want to strangle him.

My chest shakes with sobs but no sound comes out of my mouth. I won't let it.

"Come on," Miya says in a voice both soft and strong, "let's go back to our room."

I nod and let her guide me away.

I'm going to tell her. I'll tell her everything about me—all I've ever done, all I've ever been. I'll tell her about Timofei and my past as an Official. I'll tell her about my family and how they never wanted me, not even as a child. Everything that I am keeping inside this mind.

The only thing I'll keep from her is my growing confusion about her. I love her, of course, but I need to work out what kind of love it is. In time, when I know what I feel, I'll give my last secret to her.

***

Honour

09:13. 06.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

Yesterday I spent the full day with Branwell, who tells me to call him Bran every two minutes. We have a pretty good idea of where we're going to start searching for Tia and Bennet. The only thing we haven't worked out is how we're gonna do it.

Horatia is somehow the easier of our sisters to find, since we know where she went. We plan to go with The Guardians when they evacuate Forgotten London and find someone who'll take us to States on one of the cargo boats. I've always known that you could get smuggled into the Cities if you felt the need and if you had enough credits. But that's the problem—money.

Once we've found my sister, after countless days, weeks, months of searching States's capitol, Washington Town—where the 'adopted' citizens live—we'll attempt to get the bracelets to work again.

Bran thinks that after we've left London and The Guardians' base the bangles might change, that wherever and whenever Branwell needs to go might change. He thinks it'll take him to Bennet, or at least he hopes it will.

"Honour!" Dalmar shouts into the dining room. He looks agitated. He rushes over and takes me by the elbow before I've even finished my breakfast. I grab a piece of green fruit from a bowl as he hauls me out of the room.

"Okay, what's going on?" I ask and take a bite of the fruit. It has a weird, grainy texture but I've had worse. Way worse.

"Can't tell you with this many people around. A meetings been called."

"And they want me?"

"Not exactly. But I want you there, and you deserve to know about this since you helped us with the letter. No one will question your presence, don't worry. Everyone knows you now."

"I've noticed." The stares I keep getting are starting to unnerve me.

Dalmar smirks. "You give them hope. That's why they're so interested in you. Everyone here wants to leave this town, and as soon as possible. You're a symbol of that becoming a real feasibility."

I raise an eyebrow. "Really, Dal?"

"What?"

"Big words this early in the morning? Do you have to?"

He rolls his eyes in exasperation. "You're the key to our escape, to our survival."

Under my breath I say, "You're all going to die."

"You don't get it. Honour, the people here have grown up underground. Some kids haven't ever been aboveground. This is all they know. But now that you're here the things they've dreamed of their whole lives—getting out of this base, getting out of Forgotten London, living _outside_ —look possible.

"You brought the letter with its warning. You got past the border. You break the rules the Officials set. You were born into the rebellion." He draws in a sharp breath. "You stand for everything we believe in. You're a hero here. And now that you're in the base everything is moving, and fast. Everyone can feel it—a revolution is in the atmosphere. And that might not be all your doing, but you were the catalyst to the chain of events."

I stare straight ahead as I walk. "All I did was mess up a load of times and follow you here."

Dalmar sighs and opens the door to the meeting room. "You're an idiot," he whispers as we take our seats. I pick at my nails and wait for the meeting to begin.

Strangely enough, Timofei is leading it this time, not Alba. She sits in the front row, straight-backed and serious-faced as Timofei stands tall up front.

"Right," Timofei begins and the hushed conversations between Guardians stop at once. "I'm not gonna mess about, I'm just gonna tell you. We've received anonymous information from someone inside the military base. They say that the new Strain, along with the other _Sixteen Strains_ , is produced and kept within a vault in Underground London Zone. It also tells us that the Officials are preparing the new Strain for release, which could mean that the release date has been pushed forward from the deadline The Unnamed gave us in his letter. This could be for a million different reasons, but it's most likely because The Unnamed's letter was old."

His eyes sweep over the Guardians as he talks. "The information lists the address of the vault where the Strains are being kept and the passcodes that we will need to access them.

"We'll need at least three technologists to go with a group of fighters to this vault to destroy the Strain. If we can get rid of it before it's released, we will be able to save hundreds of lives and an evacuation may not be as vital as it is right now."

A woman in the front row raises her hand. "If we already know the passcode to gain entry, why do you need technologists?"

"To blow the whole thing up," Timofei explains with a flourish of his hands. "And to find a way to contain the vault within a vacuum so that we don't expose every civilian accidentally. It's possible that instead of destroying the new Strain, as well as _The Sixteen_ _Strains_ , we could set them free. That is what we need the technologists to figure out a solution to."

"I think we can do that," the woman says after conferring with the people sat around her.

"Thank you," Timofei breathes gratefully. "Any more questions?"

A man in his twenties raises his voice. "Who is the sender? You must know who it is."

Timofei straightens up, his whole posture defensive. "Whoever they are, they're talented at hiding themselves. They sent the message through military computers and left no trace whatsoever. I think we're more than likely dealing with a corrupt Official."

"And how do we know it's not a trap?"

"Ah." Timofei smiles. "They listed a number of facts about us and our purpose—information they wouldn't know if they didn't have a Guardian contact. _And_ they left a nice message telling us how out of hand and despicable States and their President has become. They also said that if we don't put a stop to it they'll kill them all from the inside. I'm inclined to trust their information."

"Words," the man mutters.

"I've read it too," Alba speaks up, "and, like Timofei, I trust this informant. If it turns out to be an ally of the military I will take full responsibility."

The man closes his mouth and shoots a glare at Timofei as I realise two things. One; not many people are willing to trust Timofei's judgement but they'll trust Alba in a heartbeat. And two; people are jealous of Timofei, maybe for his close relationship with Alba or maybe for another reason.

Timofei seems okay to me. He took me in and gave me safety and a home.

The people filter out of the room after that and, unlike last time, Dalmar doesn't wait to speak to Alba afterwards. I wonder how long he's known his mother, but I don't ask him. I get the feeling that he wouldn't talk about it even if I asked.

***

Miya

12:02. 06.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

For some reason our physical training session for today has been cancelled. Yosiah seems to be happy with this, but I'm not. I'm irritated. I want to learn as much as possible as quick as possible. After a long argument with Yosiah I had the revelation that I wasn't as good at fighting as I thought I was, and that in a real fight I'd more than likely get screwed up. Or killed. Getting a decent hit on someone every so often is miles from being trained in combat.

But instead of learning how to fight, I'm sat in a common room glaring at the wall. At least the room is empty besides us. Yosiah's sat on the floor with his back against the sofa, a book in his lap and a frown on his face.

I allow myself to watch him while he's distracted.

His callused hands glide across the page and his eyes follow every sentence. He's reading about the history of The Guardians again. His dark hair falls forward from where he'd tucked it behind his ears but he doesn't push it back. He carries on reading with eager eyes and tracing fingers.

He shakes his head at something he reads. Then he says, "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" I reply absently.

"Watch me. I'm not very interesting."

My heart jolts and my stomach flips. How does he know that without looking at me?

"I don't watch you," I scoff.

He turns his head, raises an eyebrow, and he knows I'm lying.

"Oh, go back to your book," I huff. I mess up his hair with my hand.

Instead of doing as I say, he closes the book and turns to face me in one swift movement. It annoys me how graceful he is. I could never move like that.

"Seriously," he says. His face is close to mine and I can see the question in his eyes. "Why do you watch me?"

I shrug. "Because I can. Because—I don't know, Siah. I don't know, okay?"

His voice and his face soften. "It's all right. It doesn't matter."

"If it didn't matter you wouldn't have asked."

He smiles his trademark half-smile. "It's nothing important. I ... wondered if you needed to watch me."

I don't say anything.

"Because," he goes on, "if you did, you wouldn't have to wait until my back was turned. I don't mind."

"How generous of you," I sneer, feeling more and more uncomfortable.

"I didn't mean it that way." He runs his hands through his hair. "Miya, you don't talk about what you're feeling. You don't say _anything_. I don't know if you're uncomfortable here, of if it makes you apprehensive, or if it scares you. I don't know because you don't tell me, and I understand that it's not _you_ to talk about your feelings, but ... I'm just saying that if everything being strange and unknown here makes you feel lost, or fearful, or anything at all—" He takes a deep breath. "I don't know if watching me is something you do because you don't know anything else here and you need to remind yourself that you do know something—that you have me. I'm trying to say that if that's why you watch me, you don't have to hide it."

For once, I feel like crying. I didn't think that was why at all. But now that he's said it I'm wondering if a tiny piece of me wasn't watching him for that reason. I thought I was looking at him for no specific reason, but now I'm not so sure. Do I keep looking at him to remind myself that he's really here, that I'm not alone? How is it that Yosiah knows me better than I do?

My fingers twitch and I want to reach out and hug him. I don't, though. I mess his hair up even more and I smirk.

"Don't be ridiculous."

He narrows his eyes and flicks hair out of his face. "You can't fool me, Miya. You know that."

I snort. "You trying to say I'm some poor little princess, all lost and alone inside the big bad Guardians' base?"

"No, you're the big bad Miya lost inside the poor little Guardians' base." He crawls onto the sofa and pulls himself up beside me. "You're still lost, though."

"So are you," I reply defensively.

"Yes, I am. And that's why I watch you when you don't realise it, like you do with me."

The rough fabric of the sofa is suddenly interesting to me. "I didn't know."

"I didn't want you to. I try to stay strong for you, but that seems a bit pointless now—since you saw me upset yesterday. You stay strong for me, too, don't you?"

I nod once.

"Stop."

I mutter, "I'm not going to burst into tears because you say I can."

He laughs and shifts closer. "You _can_ cry on me, though, if you ever need to."

"I'll bear that in mind." I don't tell him that I wanted to cry a few moments ago.

He rolls his eyes. "You're so stubborn."

"You're one to talk," I retort. He rests his head against mine and glares at me.

"I'm not stubborn."

"Oh, please," I laugh loudly and push him away. He falls off of the end of the sofa and grabs my arm, dragging me with him to the floor. "You'll pay for that," I whisper, deadly.

His eyes are lit up. "Oh no. Did I pull you down with me?"

"Dick."

He shrugs and the movement alerts me to how close we are. I'm not sure I've ever been this close to Yosiah before, not even when I rolled towards him in my sleep when we used to live in the shed. My legs are around his waist, my chest against his. My eyes and his are only millimetres apart. I'm irrationally nervous all of a sudden but I don't drop the scowl from my face.

Yosiah glares back and then he kisses me fiercely, years of frustration coming out in one second. This can't happen though. I've seen what women like me are to men—a one night affair and something to be disposed of in the morning. I won't let Yosiah dispose of me, and I won't lose him. Not after everything we've been through.

I catch myself returning his kiss and drag myself away. "Bad idea," I whisper from a safe distance.

"Agreed," he breathes. His eyes aren't in focus. "I'm sorry for kissing you."

I stare at the ceiling. "Sorry for kissing you back."

"It's okay. Shall we ... never speak of this again?"

"Yep."

"Good. Great." He stands and rushes towards the door. He stops dead in the doorway and turns. His eyes are panicked and my heart beats harder. He thinks he's lost me. Idiot.

"We're still friends, you giant moron," I say, and I watch relief fill him. He nods quickly, grins, and runs from the room.

14:34. 06.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

"This is gonna hurt like a bitch, isn't it?"

I watch the team of doctors prepare the test that will determine if Yosiah and I are immune to _The Sixteen Strains_. There are vials to hold samples, plastic tubes, glass jars that have different coloured liquids in, a technical-looking machine that hooks into a computer, and a lot of needles. It's the sight of needles that has my breath getting stuck in the back of my throat. I hate them. I absolutely hate them. A shudder of fear rips down my spine at the thought of one going into my skin, not for the first time.

"Not much," a guy answers my question, walking over the threshold. I can tell he's a Guardian by his white clothes. He looks at Yosiah with a mixture of wariness and longing and I know who he is straight away. He must be Timofei. He's not bad looking, and the scar on his lip makes him look tough which is something I usually respect, but this is the man that made Yosiah want to cry. I hate him instantly. The revulsion helps distract me from my fear of needles.

"Didn't realise this was a public showing," I snipe. Yosiah bites his lip not to smile.

"It's not," Timofei replies. "Nobody else in this base knows how to administer the test. I'm the head medic."

"Brilliant."

He chuckles and helps the other Guardians set up the machine, putting the clear tubes into some kind of port. "You don't like me, do you?"

"Nope."

"Has that got anything to do with you, Vi?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. My eyes narrow to slits. Not only does this guy know Yosiah from his past, from before me, but he knows his name—his real name. Vi what though? I need to know. I grip the chair beneath me with white knuckles.

When Yosiah and I met we were both on the run. It was dangerous to tell anyone who we were, so we gave ourselves new names. I've never known Yosiah's birth name and he's never known mine.

"Miya can think for herself," Yosiah says. His voice is pleasant, but I can hear the undertone of it. It's not what he's saying as much as what he's implying: that Timofei _can't_ think for himself, that The Guardians think for him. He's playing dirty. This is a side of him that I rarely see. I like it.

"Evidently," Timofei murmurs and I tilt my head so fast my hair whips my face.

I say evenly, "What's that supposed to mean?" My anger is rising, despite my level tone, and I'm pretty sure Yosiah sees it.

"Uh-oh," he says under his breath.

"I only mean," Timofei says, "that you're not exactly quiet, or subtle. Your ability to think for yourself is clear in your brash nature."

"Brash?" I'm of the chair and on my feet.

"Miya," Yosiah says warningly, but his warning is half-hearted, "don't."

"Don't what?" Timofei asks. He turns to look at Yosiah, giving me a perfect shot on the side of his face. He doesn't see my fist coming until it connects with his cheekbone.

He falls back against the wall and looks at me with a satisfied look. I don't know what he thinks he's proven, or what game he thinks he's won, but he hasn't. If he thinks me punching him will turn Yosiah against me he clearly doesn't know him, or us.

Calmly, I sit back in the chair and put my arm pointedly on the arm rest. "Are we gonna get this test over with, or what?"

I almost laugh at the confusion in his eyes, but I'm focusing on staying calm. He knows why I hit him, and it wasn't because he called me brash; it was for Siah. I know that he was goading me, that he wanted me to hit him—probably so Alba would force us out of the base—but I don't care. It was never my choice to be here in the first place. Come what may, as Siah would say.

Timofei pushes off of the wall and prepares a needle before sliding it into my arm without warning. He draws two needles of blood, putting each in a vial which one of the doctors connects to the plastic tubes.

When he's finished he nods at me and says, "You're done. You can go now."

"Not likely," Yosiah remarks before I can speak a word. When our eyes meet he grins slyly. "You can't separate us that easily."

Timofei shrugs and prepares another needle for Yosiah. "This might hurt," he says but Siah doesn't reply.

Five minutes later and the doctors have two vials each of our blood hooked up to the machine.

Timofei watches Yosiah as he comes to stand beside me. "It'll take an hour or so for the results to come through. I'll come find you when we know," he tells us.

Yosiah nods and taps me on the arm. "Come, Miya."

We get halfway to our room before Timofei comes running down the corridor. "Wait," he shouts. His voice sounds weirdly strangled.

Yosiah turns, an expectant look on his face. I'm confused. What else does Timofei have to say?

"They had my family," he blurts. "The military had them locked in their cellars and they were torturing them because they were Guardians. They knew I was a traitor too, and that I was feeding information back to Alba. Alba agreed to help me free my family as long as I became a full Guardian. She ... she knew I was immune."

"Hang on a minute," I butt in. "You're immune?"

He nods, watching Yosiah. "And where do you think I got that from?"

"I don't know," Siah says quietly.

"From you. You're like a magnet for immunity. I caught it from you, and so did she." He looks at me for a second. "I don't know how it works, but it does."

"That doesn't make any sense." Yosiah's voice is tight. "I'm not ... it's not even proven that I am immune. The test could come back negative."

"It won't," Timofei says fiercely. "I know it won't. And I'm sorry for what I did, but I needed to get out of the military—I needed to become a Guardian. I had to save my family, and faking my death was the only way I could. I didn't know that it'd be you that—"

"You didn't plan it beforehand? Find the best way to get rid of me _and_ leave the Officials. Kill two birds with one stone?"

Timofei shouts, "No!"

"What, then?"

"I didn't know. It wasn't planned; it just fell that way. I'm sorry. I don't know how many times I have to say it before you believe me."

I look at Yosiah for a long minute before speaking. "He does believe you," I tell Timofei, "and he understands why you did it. I think ... he even forgives you."

"Miya," Yosiah whispers. He's breaking.

"No," I say. My voice comes out sharper than I meant it to. "I'm not gonna let you run from this. He's your friend, or ex-boyfriend, or brother, _or whatever_ , and you don't hate him as much as you're letting on."

Siah lets out an angry, pained sound that shatters me, then he stalks down the corridor as fast as his legs will take him.

Impatiently, I ask Timofei, "Why did you leave him? Why didn't you get into contact with him after you joined The Guardians?"

"Because it would have put him in danger."

"So you ignored him to keep him safe?"

"Yes."

"Go!" I command, grabbing his shoulder and shoving him down the corridor after Siah.

He looks at me incredulously over his shoulder. "What?"

"For God's sake, go tell him that!"

"It won't change anything."

I shake my head angrily. "You don't get it. Yosiah would never be angry with you for pretending to be dead because he's done the same thing. He knew you had a reason as soon as he found out you were still alive. He's upset because you left him behind."

As soon as the words leave my mouth he's sprinting after Yosiah. I lean against the wall and run my hands over my face. I've either solved the problem between them or made it worse. I still don't know what relationship they used to have. Yosiah won't say anything that isn't extremely vague, but I could have asked Timofei.

I groan and walk back to our room.

16:07. 06.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

A Guardian finds me in our room and hands me an envelope. My immunity test came back as positive, which means that I'm immune to _The Sixteen Strains_. I guess that explains why I didn't die on the streets when the people around me were dropping left right and centre. I ask about Yosiah's results but the doctor refuses to tell me.

He gives me another envelope for Yosiah, warns me that he'll know if I tamper with it, and hurries back to wherever he came from.

I find Yosiah easily. He's in one of the common rooms that we go to a lot. I don't expect to see Timofei attempting to kiss him, though. I don't expect to see Yosiah hesitate for at least three seconds before pushing him away either. I duck behind the wall so they don't see me and take a deep breath.

I'm not sure why it bothers me that Timofei would kiss him. Maybe because he's clearly bad for Yosiah. But why did I get them back together? I wish I knew.

When I walk into the room, they're sat far apart and in silence. I drop the envelope in Yosiah's lap and sit on a sofa across from them with a forced grin.

"Looks like I'm immune," I tell him. "Now it's your turn."

He nods, reading the paper in his hands. "Me too."

"I told you." Timofei smirks as he gets up. He slips out of the door and I'd bet that the smirk has fallen right off his face.

"Are you all right?" I ask as soon as we're alone. Yosiah's biting his lip again.

"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

I watch him again, this time openly. "You don't look okay."

He repeats, "I'm fine."

"Why didn't you kiss him back?" I ask without meaning to. I swear at myself in my head.

"You saw?"

"I didn't mean to ... but yeah. I thought you were interested in him."

He laughs once; it's a twisted, miserable thing. "Impossible."

"Because of everything he's done?"

He starts to say something but closes his mouth. "Yeah, because of that."

"You can tell me. I know you're lying."

"I can't tell you, Miya." He sounds exhausted. I sit beside him. "I don't even know myself, and this is me ... feeling this."

I can't work out what to say to that and we fall into a silence that isn't exactly comfortable, but isn't awkward either. It's the kind of silence that comes with years of knowing each other.

Without a word he holds his arm out and I know what he needs. I curl my fingers tightly around his wrist and his breath comes out in a quiet sigh.

"I expected things to change when I woke up here, but I never expected this degree of change," he whispers. "I don't know if I can handle this not knowing. I want to _know_."

"Know what?"

He fixes his eyes on his arm, on my hand. "I can't say. Not until I know."

"Siah, if something's wrong tell me. You're not sick are you? I know you can't catch a Strain but you used to talk about other illnesses. You haven't got one of those have you?"

"No. I'd tell you if I did."

"Then what is it?"

He says, barely audible, "It doesn't matter."

He rests his head on my shoulder. I want to press the matter but I'm too distracted. I'm always distracted when this happens ... the physical contact thing. I don't mean to touch Yosiah's hair but when I do he looks at me through his eyelashes and smiles. Not a half-smile, but a real one.

"You're the best friend I could ever ask for."

I say, "I know," and he hides his smile in my shoulder as I carry on stroking his hair.

I don't mean to fall asleep on the common room sofa, but somehow I end up doing just that. I don't think Siah means to fall asleep beside me either.

***

Branwell

16:58. 06.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

I stand beside Honour as Alba and a group of Guardians move in a flurry about the room. It's a large storage chamber, with all manner of food and supplies in towering heights of cardboard boxes. In the corner, padlocked, is a cupboard that holds weapons. Each item has to be recorded in a book when it's taken out, which Alba monitors vigilantly. This is why it takes us almost an hour to get prepared.

As soon as I had heard about the diseases being stored in a vault in an underground city I volunteered to go with the party; in the most part my curiosity is to blame for it. I am intrigued by the machine they are going to use to filter the Strain. I am also curious about the many people who never venture aboveground and how similar or dissimilar they are to The Guardians. Honour has explained to me that the place we're going to is like some parts of London I would be familiar with—the markets and shops and such—but that everything is beneath the ground.

I'm told there are different boroughs of housing in the zone, along with an industrial area where the residents of Underground London Zone work. It all sounds bizarre and undreamed-of to me—an underground city! I want to see it for myself. This is one of those situations in which an account of the events will not be good enough. I need to see this awesome city with my own eyes.

It took me millennia to convince Honour to take me along with him, and even longer for him to convince Alba to let me go. In the end it was my expertise in machines and inventions that worked in my favour. If anything goes wrong I may be able to help the tech ... techno—the people who work with machines and devices like I do.

I haven't a clue how Honour persuaded Alba to let _him_ go.

Eventually the seven Guardians who are going on this vault endeavour are organised and they stand in a loose circle, all white and armed. They each have a circular emblem on the breast of their jackets, embroidered in a violet thread; the focus of which is a bird in flight. I ask one of the Guardians, a young dark haired woman, about it and she explains to me that it is a dove—a symbol of purity, promise, and hope. She tells me that it's like The Guardians' colour white which also has connotations of purity, but more importantly—rebirth. I am not convinced that white does mean rebirth but I don't voice my thoughts as I'm sure that would be rude of me.

Instead, I watch as Alba gives the group final instructions. I gasp in shock as my eyes acknowledge _her_ uniform. Like the others she is in white, but the emblem on her chest is not a dove but a triangle, and inside that triangle is a key. It's the double-edged key of my father's wooden box. I yearn to ask her about it but she approaches Honour and I, purses her lips, and there is no time for me to talk.

"You two ... try not to get yourselves killed. Outside the base you're responsible for yourselves. Come back alive."

I nod. I've got better things to do tonight than die.

"We will," Honour replies, sounding more determined than I've heard him before, even more than when we were discussing the search for our siblings.

I think that perhaps this is the true Honour, beneath his angst and humour—this unyielding will to survive, the resolute part of him that fights tooth and claw to live. This is what Honour is, I think: a machine that undergoes countless battles each day just to survive, but a machine that is steadfast and strong and undefeated all the same. He is fierce and devastated. Admirable and pitiful. Unwavering and doomed. I think that's why I like him so much so soon after meeting him—because we are the same.

*

I sit in a contraption Honour calls a car. It's shiny, slim, and it purrs as it glides through the streets. It is nothing at all like the vehicles we had at home. The one time I saw an automobile—when my aunt and uncle came to visit, recently back from acquiring a business in China, and with all manner of expensive possessions—it made an awful racket, but this one is practically soundless.

I worry aloud that people—those everyone calls the Officials—will see our car and we will be caught, but a Guardian assures me that the vehicle is registered to a rich gentleman who lives in Underground London Zone, who is a Guardian ally and a man authorised to have such a vehicle passing through the town. It confuses me when they refer to London as a town when it is in fact a city, but I've come to notice that the only place they call a city is America, or rather: States. It's peculiar, but then again everything I have come across in this new world has been peculiar.

I am curious about what happened to all of the other cities, the ones that existed in _my_ time. I wonder what became of my cousins' home of Oxford, and if Norham Gardens where they live still exists today, or if, like London, it has been changed beyond recognition.

As we pass through the different zones of London I feel that this is a world that has been forsaken by everything good and prosperous. It is a world without hope, brightness, and opportunity; things I had taken for granted in my own home.

Everywhere is dust and dirt. Everywhere are people pushing past each other. Rushing and running, none of them stop to chatter on the street. Not a single person pauses to converse with a neighbour or acquaintance.

This is a place without friendship as well, I muse. It is as if someone has removed the things that make us human—our hope, our futures, our companionship—and left a bare version of humanity.

These people do not rush because they have somewhere to be, or because they are late. They rush because they do not want to be on these dusty, despondent streets any longer than necessary. Their homes are their only havens, but even those look beaten down compared to the buildings of the London I know.

The exterior of each building is crumbling, worn away by things I cannot even imagine. I wonder if the houses are so decayed because they have been through wars so long ago that the people here can't even remember them. I also, reluctantly, consider the possibility that this place, this former city of glory and prosperity, has come to be in this state because of _The Lux_ and The Weapon.

Maybe this is what The Weapon does. Maybe it strips away the very things that make us people and the very things that make a city a city. I think that I understand now why these are called The Forgotten Lands, and why this is Forgotten London. I had presupposed that someone, somewhere, had forgotten that London existed—that this world lived inside a vacuum of isolation and nobody in the world knew of it any longer. But I was wrong. It is not the world that has forgotten these people; these people have forgotten the world.

It takes an eternity to reach the entrance that will grant us access to Underground London Zone, and when we come to it my mind boggles. We are going to drive into the ground itself! A section of the street slopes downward, graduating into pitch darkness, and the car glides along the route and inside the ground. We're immersed in a darkness only broken by the streams of light the car throws out. I sigh forlornly, thinking to myself that, even in the car, if I had _The Illuminum_ we'd be able to see yards in front and behind of us. I then consider the possibility that I do not want to see the things that surround us, buried in the earth as they are. I have images of dirt and rot and insects burrowing.

We descend on a gentle slope for five minutes—maybe more or maybe less—before the car glides into a long, narrow area, lit above by tubes of illumination. Several vehicles are scattered about the area like specs of dust in the grey light. I'd wager that even I look grey and ghastly under this lighting, much as everything else does.

A Guardian inclines his head towards Honour and I. "We only have two rules: stay together, and don't hesitate. If you think someone might try to hurt you, get our attention. If you think we might have been seen or suspected, get our attention. We have ways of rendering people unconscious without harming them. It's safer for them, and for us, that way. Don't wait around to see what happens—that's the thing that gets people killed."

I take his words seriously, murmuring my acquiescence. Hesitation is what got me injured by Morelock. My shoulder gives a dull throb as if to punctuate my thought, but I know it is only an echo caused by my remembrance. A ghost pain. The real pain has faded by now, with the aid of The Guardians' wondrous medicines, and this is nothing but a creation of my mind.

Honour asks, "Ready?" and I reply, with confidence, that I am. Ready for what, I'm not precisely sure, but I am thriving with readiness for _something_.

The nine of us exit the car silently, and we walk as one to a door painted black to blend with the darkness. I don't notice the entrance until one of the technology Guardians slips a gadget from his belt and holds it against the handle of the door. The locking mechanism clicks a second later; the door opens and we close it behind us without a sound.

Nobody speaks but I sense determination from The Guardians and nervousness from Honour as we move down a shadowy staircase. I think the walls may be damp but I can hardly see. They smell damp.

It worries me that The Guardians wear all white, that they will stand out amongst the people that live down here, but even as we emerge into a low tunnel we do not encounter anyone. I want to enquire about the whereabouts of those who dwell here underground but I don't dare to disrupt the silence, and my question answers itself a minute later.

The tunnel ends abruptly, and before us rises a wide passageway with glass-fronted shops on either side of a sort of courtyard. It's an arcade, I realise. An arcade of shops.

The colours here are mostly muted—blacks and whites with greys in between—but weaving amongst them, contained in treasure troves of trade, are the occasional flashes of orange and emerald and gold and scarlet. Each of the shops are fronted with glass windows that run from the arched ceiling to the floor, and behind them glitter a great number of trinkets and opulent-looking wares. In one of them I see a grand piano. In another I see a display of snowflakes fashioned from clear gem stones. Another has racks of rings and necklaces twinkling in the golden light. In another an impressive wooden nutcracker, almost eight feet tall, stands in the doorway, a toy steam train weaving between its feet. From all of their ceilings hang sparkling garlands, and decorated trees stand tall and proud beneath them. They are preparing for Christmas already. Or perhaps it has already drawn close to December—I have lost track of time's passing, though I cannot imagine months have flown past me.

I would never, even in my most bizarre imaginings, have thought that a structure such as this could exist beneath the ground.

As I observe, the citizens of this bewildering city walk slowly; still nothing like the bustling streets of my home, yet a complete contrast to the streets above. It is as if they have an unlimited amount of time, whereas those aboveground have a dwindling supply of moments.

People move down the arcade, going in and out of shops, and they stop to chatter to each other. This is where they keep the people who have yet to be broken. I think I understand. These are the people who have money, who can afford to buy whimsical things from boutiques.

I look at Honour and expect to see a mirror of my own confusion at how these people can have so much when Honour's people have so little, but instead I see a burning anger. I touch his shoulder fleetingly and he nods. In a moment he remembers why he's here. His back straightens and his face is devoid of expression.

A cluster of people surround us—ordinary civilians of this underground realm—and I feel the beginnings of panic. One of them tips his head at the Guardian in charge of us. Now I see how The Guardians, even in their stark white uniforms, intend to get around without being seen. The civilians encase us completely. Anyone watching would see only a group of regular people walking together.

We get from one end of the arcade to the other like that: cradled between the civilians.

They disperse as soon as we're away from the shops and inside another dark, vacant tunnel. The people don't come here for whatever reason.

One of the civilians tells us to, "Take a right at the end of this tunnel. You'll see a steel door. The vaults are inside."

I expect one of The Guardians to nod or thank them but not a single one of them does, which makes me feel guilty for not personally speaking my gratitude. The civilians have dispersed before we've made even one step in the direction we were told to go, my chance at thanking them gone. I wonder if they are undercover Guardians or if they are allies. Nobody explains who they are or acknowledges their help, however, so I am left with my questions.

Sure enough we find the steel door we were told about, but it's a great deal more than I was expecting. I made the mistake of assuming that that it would be a standard door, but instead of being made of wood, it would be fashioned out of steel. Nothing about it is standard—it looks as if the whole wall is on hinges and will swing open.

The ceiling is arched and comprises of a patchwork of bricks of all shapes, sizes, and colours. The door, or rather wall, looks heavy and thick. There's a nook on the right side of it that I take to be a handle, but other than that it is a vast sheet of metal. It's going to take more than one of us to open it.

"That's one hell of a door," says Honour. He looks daunted. I know how he feels. "This should be interesting," he murmurs as the two technology Guardians litter a number of small, circular devices on the door's surface.

The head Guardian asks as they work, "Will this cause much noise?"

"No, it should be silent," a woman replies. She's tall and dark and self-assured. Her partner is short and untidy but exceptionally fast.

"Good," the head Guardian replies as a flash of lightning-like light ripples across the door's surface. The woman was right, however. It is silent.

"Ah." She smiles proudly. "I thought so. It's controlled by a computer. Separate its connection to the central computer—blow its electrics—and the door opens."

"As long as it opens, I don't care how you do it," he replies. He instructs three other Guardians to pull it open. It seems to be as heavy as it looks but The Guardians that came with us aren't exactly weak. Two of the men have muscles to rival Joel's and the woman is astonishingly strong. It takes them less than half a minute to have it pulled open enough so that we can fit through.

"That will have sent an alert to the central computer," the head Guardian tells us all, "so we'll have to be as quick as possible."

He doesn't wait for a response, disappearing around the door and into a corridor of vaults. Someone in front of Honour and I holds a light so that we can see where we are walking. We're in a long corridor that spreads out as far as I can see. It is lined with tall, circular doors in the same steel as the external door, and each of the vaults has a water-tight lock like those on a ship.

The Guardians walk swiftly down the corridor and stop at the vault we were instructed to come to. The technologists cover the vault door with what look to me like explosives. They place around twenty of them on the metal before the shattering noise of gunfire makes us drop to the floor.

The head Guardian swears and grasps for something on his belt. In the meantime one of the men with guns—Officials, I assume—grazes his arm with a blinding light. He moves, despite the pain, and I watch with fascination as he throws a grenade at the Officials. I brace for a ground-shaking explosion but it never comes. Instead, one by one, the Officials stop firing and the rain of fireworks stops. The grenade must have done something to their guns. What a brilliant idea—to invent such a thing.

It does not hold the Officials for long, however, but it does distract them long enough that The Guardians manage to dispose of three of them. Around twenty Officials remain, and there are only nine of us. We are outnumbered but that doesn't appear to matter to The Guardians. They fly around the room like birds but strike out like snakes. Even the technologists fight like vipers. The Officials lay on the floor motionless before long, and the technology Guardians erect a structure that covers the entrance we came through.

I whisper to Honour, "What do you think that is for?"

"To keep the Strains in, I think," he replies. His eyes are alight and his fists are clenched at his sides. He _wants_ the fight. Perhaps that's why he came. I wonder why he didn't jump in with The Guardians a moment ago.

"Quickly," one of the technologists says. "We have three minutes to get as far away as possible before these things detonate and we have to set up the second containment on the far door."

The head Guardian nods stiffly. His eyes are tight with pain but he doesn't complain once.

We sprint for the far end of the corridor and it feels good to run. I feel a rare thing: alive. Everything inside of me is awake and screaming for life.

A metal door, identical to the one on the other side, stands before us and we rush through it and out onto the other side. I can only think that The Officials must have left it open when they came into the chamber of vaults. The Guardians, with their strength and brawn, push it back into place, and the technologists set up the second containment contraption. It looks like a giant canvas bag, but I can tell by how it moves when they touch it that it's much more rigid and stronger.

"Guardian technology," the dark girl informs me when she sees me looking. "It's tougher than it looks."

_So are you_ , I think with images repeating behind my eyes of her balled hands colliding with the face of a bulky Official, but all I do is nod.

When the thing is set up, a mere half a minute after we exited the vault room, we make to return to the car—

But we are met with the chilling sight of a line of armed men. They stand from one end of the room to the other, blocking any exit and trapping us in what I fear is the epicentre of the explosion.

Before us are at least a hundred men dressed all in black. Shadows.

It takes me a second to understand that our chances of getting out of this situation alive are slim, with the explosives at our backs and the warriors before us.

The Officials attack first.

They attempt to shoot us with their guns but the grenade must still function out here. I wonder how much longer it will last, and how much time we have until our luck runs out. When they realise that their weapons do not work they charge towards us. The Guardians meet them in the middle and a number of Officials fall. The Guardians move like madmen. If I weren't seeing it with my own eyes I would think it was impossible.

Honour and I will have to fight this time. The Officials are encroaching ever nearer. I glance around for something to use as a weapon since I am hopeless with my fists but Honour is one step ahead of me. He hands me a jagged piece of pipe and I nod gratefully. He holds a steel pole. I don't know where he found either item but I do not have time to puzzle it.

Two Officials swarm towards me, and if I allow myself to think I will be overwhelmed. I let my instincts drive me and push my arm through the air with a force that comes from my upper body—a force I was unaware I possessed. As the edge of the pipe rips through the neck of one of the Officials, a word comes into my mind that I had heard the medical Guardians discussing some days ago—adrenaline. That is what I am experiencing, I think.

I sway with sickness as the Official drops to the ground. There is too much blood and gaping flesh.

The second Official, who barely registers amongst the horrific images in front of my eyes, does not pause to mourn the death of his comrade. He slams me against the vault door and my vision explodes with the collision.

_Please don't detonate now_ , I beg in my thoughts to anyone who will listen. _I will do anything, pay any debt, but please do not explode now. I cannot die now—I have to find my sister._

We came into this world together and I know that we will exit it in the same way. Dying without her is not an option.

Astoundingly, the explosives hold off long enough for me to swing the pipe, catching the Official's chest hard, though I had expected to be blown apart. Time has slowed down, I infer numbly. The black-clothed man stumbles backwards, giving me the chance to dart away from the door. I run, dragging Honour with me and away from a mob of advancing Officials. They are like flies on the dead; never-ending in number and unrelenting in character, but I will not let them kill Honour or I—not when I have this pipe and I have already killed one man. I am dangerous. I never intended to kill a single man, but I am certain the Officials mean to kill us. Now I am full of dread and adrenaline. I drone on, swiping at any black-clad figure that gets close enough, refusing to give up my hold on Honour.

More than once, a Guardian barrels towards us with their fists raised, but they recognise either our faces or the purple band of material Alba made us tie around our arms and they clear a path towards the exit.

It feels to take an entire hour to reach the heavy wooden door, and I exhale in relief when we near it. I don't know how many Guardians will make it out of this chaos but Honour and I will. I can save at least him.

That is, until the explosion rocks the entire underground.

For an elongated moment it is as if I'm flying. I am like The Guardians now. I am birdlike and free.

The concrete wall jolts me from the sensation of flying as I crash against it. I hear something in my arm snap and my voice tears itself out of my throat in a cry.

It's like being in Morelock's basement again—the detachedness, the sense that somewhere something is happening that is important, but all I can focus on is the searing pain. It throbs and stabs and screams at me until I am screaming too.

***

Honour

19:24. 06.10.2040. Forgotten London, Underground London Zone.

I can't hear anything except the rushing-water-noise that fills my ears and drowns out everything else. I think it's the aftermath of the explosion but I could have gone deaf. I won't be able to tell until I'm out of this mess. The back of my head pounds where it crashed into the floor, and my shoulders scream at me as I haul Branwell up from the floor and lean all of his weight on me. He's unconscious.

A large section of the wall has caved outward from the direction of the vault, a side wall has collapsed entirely, and I have a bad feeling that the roof is going to come down. I hope the Strain containment did its job, or we'll be dead in hours.

Two Guardians are struggling with a wooden door. Once it's open they waste no time in pushing me over the threshold. I feel a cold hand briefly on my shoulder before two white figures dart up the stone steps. I hope they've gone to start the car and aren't just abandoning us.

Nothing is clear; it's like my eyes have been covered with a thick layer of mist, making everything distorted. Half-blindly, I put one lead-heavy foot in front of the other, angling my leg so that my footsteps fall on the stairs and I don't trip over myself.

I fumble with Bran, dragging his feet against the stone because there's nothing else I can do, until the head Guardian comes behind us and takes his other side. Between us we can support Branwell better.

"Are you okay?" I ask quietly, not wanting to speak at normal level in case an Official hears and comes after us. It takes a moment after I hear myself speak for me to realise that I can still hear. "I saw—you were shot?"

"I'll be fine," he grunts, "as soon as we're out of here. We did our job—the assignment is complete and the Strains are destroyed—and I don't intend to stick around in this war zone any longer than nec—"

"Really, Guardian," a voice rasps, followed by a stream of coughs. The head Guardian, whose name I still don't know, stops dead. "Do you think that vault was the only place we keep them?"

He turns to face the voice and I'm again supporting Bran on my own. I half-lean him against the wall.

"Go!" the Guardian barks at me. He cringes and I can tell that his wound is causing him pain. His arm hangs flaccidly at his side. "Get to the top of the stairs. I'll be with you in a second."

I hesitate but the look on his face threatens consequences if I disobey him. My feet lurch and I struggle upwards, lugging Bran with me.

The Guardian asks tightly, "Where are the rest of the diseases kept?"

I see a fleeting shadow of an Official as I glance over my shoulder. I stumble even quicker up the stairs, gritting my teeth against the ache in my bones.

"Lots of other places," the Official brags.

The voices echo off of the walls as I get closer and closer to the top of the staircase. The stone feels like it will never end. I think that I'll keep tripping over myself, nearing the top, and that the exit will keep getting further away.

The Guardian says, hard, "Tell me and I won't kill you."

The Official laughs. "Not a chance."

The head Guardian doesn't reply and I listen intently. I hear the scuffle of feet on the steps and a gurgling sound. Please don't let the Guardian have died. If the Official comes up behind us, Bran and I will both die. I've already let Thalia, John, and Wes die. I figure if I save Bran it's at least a step towards paying back for my mistakes. I'm going to try and save as many people as possible, but I can't do that if I'm dead.

We reach the door at the top of the staircase, amazing me, and I fall through it and end up on top of Branwell's unconscious form. A hand takes hold of my shoulder, urging me to my feet, and I beg for Guardians and not Officials. What I get is neither—it's the people from earlier that hid us as we moved through the crowd. One of them has Bran hoisted in his arms, and he is _massive_. He must be at least seven feet tall.

"This way," says a man in his thirties as I find my feet. His hair is silver and his face has no emotion whatsoever. He begins to guide us away from the staircase but I can't forget the scuffle I heard.

"Wait," I protest. "The Guardian—he might be hurt."

I inch towards the stairs but a shape appears in the doorway before I get anywhere near. A number of the civilians flood in front of me, shielding me from whoever made it to the opening. I don't know why they'd protect me when they don't know me, but I don't have the energy or will to complain. I stretch above them to see who survived.

The head Guardian.

He stands in front of the civilians, looking frail and ill but alive. A number of my protectors rush to support him and he grunts in pain. I think he's the sort of man that would grunt in any situation, good, bad, or otherwise.

"We have to move quickly," Grey Hair says. "That was only the first wave of Officials. They were sent ten minutes ago, and a second rotation will arrive any time soon."

"Car park," the head Guardian grinds out.

"I don't mean to be rude," I say quickly, before I lose my nerve beside the enormous man, "but who are you?"

"Protectors," Grey Hair answers. He glances at me from the corner of his eye and it's a look that says _that's all you need to know_.

He watches to see if I'll ask any further questions, and, when he realises I'm not going to, he draws us away and down a staircase.

The giant still carries Branwell, and the head Guardian is held up by two Protectors. I catch them watching me out of the corner of their eyes and wonder again why they are protecting me. They must have some agreement with The Guardians, but I'm not a Guardian. I think about it as we're led down corridors, up several more staircases, around corners, and then—finally—brought to the place where we left the car. I almost run to it in relief.

Three Guardians stand alert beside the car, and they spring into action at the sight of us. They surround us and bombard us with questions.

"Shut up, all of you," the head Guardian snaps. "We don't have time for questions. Get in the car and take these two back to Alba."

The female technologist narrows her eyes. "You're not coming with us?"

"No. I'm not. I'm dying. I caught one of the Strains down near the vaults. An Official injected me with it and now I'm infectious."

The Protectors around him take several steps back, dragging me and Bran with them.

"Leave _now_ ," he orders. "Go back to the base."

"We can't leave you," the technologist says, "but back home we can _heal_ you."

"Too far gone," he replies calmly, his voice barely loud enough to carry across the small distance. "I'm almost certain it was Strain Twelve."

"Please," she begs. "We can't leave you here. You should die in your home, surrounded by your people. Not here in the military's utopia."

"I'm afraid that's not an—"

He drops to the floor before he can finish his sentence and the technologist starts towards him with a cry. A Protector holds her back.

Grey Hair shouts, "Stay back! You have no way of knowing how badly he is infected. He would not want for you to die."

"But if he has Strain Twelve ...," one of The Guardians breathes.

"He will become delusional and turn into someone you do not know. It would be best for you to go now. Take The Saviour and his friend to safety."

_The Saviour?_ Does he mean Branwell?

Or me?

No, he can't mean me—I'm the one who ruins people's lives instead of saving them—he must mean Bran. But what is he the saviour of?

The Guardian on the floor howls in pain, and something happens that I've never seen before. Blisters ripple into existence on his face and the parts of his body that are visible. My stomach rolls with the need to throw up. The blisters cover his face and then they start to pop. His _skin_ _bursts_. The blisters leave behind craters of red, burned skin on his deathly pale face.

The protectors pull us as far away from the head Guardian as possible.

"Is that Strain Twelve?" someone asks. "Is that what it does?"

"No," a Protector replies. "That is definitely not Strain Twelve. Or any of the other _Sixteen Strains_."

The head Guardian screams and a shudder bolts down my spine. I can't watch but I can't look away either. His skin pops and peels away, and the skin under that pops and peels away until nothing is left of him but ash and clothes.

I still can't look away.

"Leave," one of the Protectors says in a voice as hard as steel and cold as rain.

The Guardians don't need telling twice. Branwell is laid across the back seats and the rest of us file silently into the car, ignoring the fact that we have more than enough empty seats to accommodate Bran's laying form. A feeling of complete horror sits with us; it's a person reclining in the leather seats, smothering us with misery and disbelief.

All I can think is this: what has happened must be because of the new Strain my father warned us about, and my sister is out there somewhere, unprotected and at risk of catching it.

When I close my eyes I see the head Guardian as he shrivels and burns away, but instead of it being his face, his body, his skin that decays, it's Horatia's.

I think I must have passed out on the way back to the base because when I wake up, God knows how long later, Hele is sat beside my bed.

"You should never have gone." Her voice is as sharp as I've heard it. Her large eyes are filled with the kindling beginnings of fury. "You could have died, Honour. We could have lost you."

"I'm sorry," I mumble.

She shakes her head angrily, but after a few minutes her voice has dissolved into something gentle and understanding. "I forgive you."

She lays the back of her hand against my forehead and purses her lips. "You're cold."

"I don't feel cold."

She puts a glass of water in my hand and looks at me expectantly so I drink it all. "You're in shock," she murmurs, pulling the covers around my shoulders after I set the glass down. Hele isn't much older than I am, but she's acting like a mother would and it makes me feel safe.

She fusses over the covers, over me, until I tell her to pack it in.

"Go to sleep," she says and her voice leaves no room for refusal. "You'll feel better once you've slept."

So I do, and Hele stays with me, whispering poetry like a lullaby until I fall asleep.

***

Honour

01:16. 07.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

Dalmar wakes me, digging his fingers into my shoulders. It takes me a while to see that he looks scared, though he's trying to hide it.

"The Guardians want you and the others who went to Underground London Zone to get tested for the Strains in the hospital."

"Now?"

"Right now."

I slither out of bed. "I don't feel sick or anything."

"You wouldn't. The Guardians expect it to lay dormant inside you. You've been exposed to one of the diseases before. Timofei thinks that because you caught a weak Strain when you were a child—not that you remember it—it acted as a sort of immunisation to prevent further infection."

I shake my head and try to drag a sensical thought through the haze of sleep. "But ... if I'm immunised, why can't other people be? Can't The Guardians come up with their own immunisations?"

"Honour, it's been possible to give vaccines against _The Sixteen Strains_ for years now. People in States are given them, and so are some of the higher members of the military."

"I know that. Everyone knows that." I drop my head into my hands, pushing my fingers against my eyelids to wake up. "But I don't get it. Why aren't The Guardians stealing the vaccines and giving them to everyone like they do with all their other stuff?"

"Because they can't." Dalmar sighs. "They don't work as well as States would have their people believe. It's complicated. They give them to citizens of States but some people die from them. The Guardians don't want to take that risk; they don't want to endanger their own people."

"But they could save them."

"Honour, you know next to nothing," he says in a dead voice. "Get up and get yourself tested. You don't want to know about this kind of thing."

"I do."

"No!" he screams. There's anger in his glaring eyes, his clenched fists, and his bared teeth. "You don't!"

The hospital room is cold.

Around me are metal tables presenting instruments and medical equipment of all kinds. On the bare stone walls hang charts and tables listing formulas and chemicals that are gibberish to me. Tinctures and solutions in glass vials, small pots of white powder, tubes of creams, and syringes of remedies litter the tables pushed against the back wall. A mountainous pile of towels sits beside cardboard boxes, and above them a rack of medical uniforms is suspended. In the middle of the room are two gurneys with sickly green padding. Bran sits on one of them looking drained and barely alive.

"Is that what it does?" I ask Dalmar in a low voice. "The test?"

"No. That was what he looked like when we dragged him out of bed."

"Not literally?"

He narrows his eyes. I don't know what I've done wrong but he's livid under the surface. "What do you take us for?"

I mutter, "Sorry."

"Okay," Timofei sighs, breezing into the room. "The Guardians who went out with you have already been tested. It's just you two."

"I'll go first," I say.

Timofei nods, approaching the table of paraphernalia. I watch as he sucks a clear liquid from a vial into a syringe. "This will be injected into your arm and either nothing will happen or a small rash will appear if you have a Strain. Okay?"

I nod okay and he injects the thing into my left forearm. I look at Branwell who has his eyes closed. "You okay, Bran?"

"No," he says feebly. "I do not have an affinity for needles. I'd rather I didn't know when it was going to happen if that's at all possible."

Timofei looks pensively at Branwell. He prepares another needle and slides it into Bran's arm, injecting the liquid. Bran doesn't flinch. I'm not sure he even notices.

Timofei pats him on the shoulder. "Done."

"Really?" Branwell asks, deflating quicker than a popped balloon. "That was all?"

Timofei smiles kindly. "That was all. And now we wait. It'll take around two minutes for the rashes to appear if they're going to."

I stare at my arm. I'm convinced I am going to be infected—that I have _The Sixteen Strains_ and the new Strain contaminating my veins. I don't feel any of the symptoms, but a part of my mind keeps repeating two words over and over:

I'm infected. I'm infected. I'm infected.

So when a circular rash the size of a fingerprint forms on my forearm I'm not surprised at all.

Timofei looks at me for a full minute, analysing. "You'll have to be quarantined," he states eventually.

I ask, "Don't you have any vaccines? Will they stop me being infectious?"

"No. They don't work that way. They don't cure you—they provide defence and immunity against future infections. It's something that needs to be administered _before_ you catch it, not after."

"The Officials call the immunisation a cure."

Timofei snorts, but he seems more angry than amused. "The Officials say a lot of things, and I don't trust a word they say."

It's Dalmar that replies, not me. "That's not true, though, is it?"

Timofei fires a withering glance at Dal, dragging his hands through his lank hair. "There have been cases," he informs reluctantly, "when we were able to save someone by administering the vaccine. Don't ask me how it works—I don't know. It doesn't make sense, and it shouldn't work, but it has done in the past."

"So do it," I say. "Will it stop me infecting anyone?"

Begrudgingly, "Yes."

"Then you need to give me that vaccine."

Timofei shakes his head.

Dalmar's hands are fists, crossed over his chest. "He won't give up. Honour's the kind of person who will steal the vaccine and inject _himself_ if you deny him it."

Am I? Am I that kind of person?

"There are risks involved." Timofei sighs, but he's not trying to convince me out of it anymore. "A lot of risks—and bad ones at that."

It's this or kill everyone I come into contact with. Tough choice. "Aren't there risks with everything?"

For a split second Timofei looks like he's going to grin. "You're right, Dalmar," he says, then he disappears around the side of the door.

"From what data we're able to access, we've determined that ten percent of people given the vaccine don't survive for longer than a month," Dalmar tells me. "You need to know the odds of what you're getting into. One in ten people die."

"But it'll stop me infecting anyone."

"It could also _kill_ you, Honour! Don't you care about yourself?"

I shrug. "I'm not sure anymore. It's not that I don't care, but after everything that's happened it doesn't seem that important. It's like ... John died and Thalia died and Wes died but nobody cares. Horatia left, but nothing changed in Forgotten London. People carry on."

I draw in a sharp breath. This feels like a rant.

"But there's this whole thing here—this rebellion or whatever it's called. There's States who are spreading the Strains around F.L. and pretending to care and comfort their families when they cart their dead away. There's the Officials we're supposed to trust, who are in on a plan to kill us all and skip off into the sunset. Now tell me how me dying actually matters when all of that's going on."

Dalmar stares at me.

"You don't deserve a premature death," Bran says and I start. I'd forgotten he was in the room. "The men outside these walls, who plan the horrible things you say—those are the men who should be exposed to death, not you."

"And the people in here? What about them? I could infect everyone. There are kids in here."

I can feel Bran's gaze on me, strong enough to burn holes through my T-shirt. "It's not your duty to protect them."

"Isn't it? My name is Honour. Where would be the honour in not doing this? In not getting rid of the danger? The Guardians saved my life from the Officials. The odds aren't that bad—at least it's not one in two. I owe it to them."

"Very honourable," Timofei drawls, returning. "Give me your left arm."

I hold it out without hesitation. My life has been a fifteen-year-long string of bad things and bad luck. I'm not taking the chance that quarantine will keep the Strains contained.

"Wait," I say. "What if I've already passed it on? How do you know I haven't already infected anyone?"

Dalmar and Timofei exchange the quickest of looks.

"What?" I demand. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Only one person has been infected by the party that went aboveground," Timofei says to the floor. "The rest of the base has been cleared. We have a team who can test the air for it. They've been working night and day to develop new technology to go with the information we're receiving."

"That's innovative of you," Branwell says.

I don't hear him. I'm looking at Dalmar. I think I know why he's so angry now. I hope I'm wrong. I don't want to be right.

"Dal," I whisper. He looks at me and he's heartbroken. I'm crying before I realise it and he's gripping my arm, embracing me. "I'm sorry," I say, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. I'm sorry."

"I'm not gonna say it's okay," he breathes, "but I don't blame you. You didn't know you were a carrier."

"I'm sorry," I repeat. I can't stop saying it.

"Honour, shut up. Once is enough."

"Sorry."

"Shut up. Will you ... rethink this vaccine? Please? I've ... Hele has had it already tonight. She had to. She was ... she was infected and she was dying so she had no choice. But she might die from this. I can't have that happen to you as well. I could lose everything." He's whispering now. "Please, Honour. Please."

"I have to."

"No, you don't."

_"I do_. I've infected Hele. I won't infect anyone else."

"I'll lose everything," he says so quietly I almost miss it. "You're my only friend."

"I wouldn't deserve you as a friend if I didn't do this."

He laughs bitterly. "You don't _deserve_ friends. It doesn't work that way. You have them or you don't. Friends aren't something you have because you deserve them. You have them because people like you and love you."

"You're not making this easier."

"I don't want to!"

"Do it," I order Timofei. "Enough people have died because of me."

_"What about me_?" Dalmar screams. "Have I not had enough? Enough loss? Enough pain?"

Timofei's voice is calm. "Dalmar, go find Hele. You're acting out of fear. This isn't you."

"How can you tell me what is and isn't me?" Dalmar fists Timofei's uniform, shoving him against the wall. He snarls, millimetres from Timofei, " _How dare you_?"

Timofei sighs with exasperation. I watch in horror as he swipes a needle from a tray to his left and jabs it into Dalmar's neck. Dalmar goes down fast, thumping onto the floor. I growl and launch myself at Timofei.

"What the hell have you done?" I think I'm trying to punch him.

"Honour, he's fine!" Bran yells.

It takes me forever to realise that Timofei isn't fighting me back. He's only restraining me so that I can't hit him. Bran is knelt on the floor beside Dalmar and looking up at the two of us. "He's perfectly fine."

Timofei is visibly offended. "I wouldn't hurt him. He's my friend, too."

I slowly regain composure and, when my arms are released, I back myself into a corner. "Sorry," I say to no one in particular. I barely notice when Timofei gives me the vaccine. I infected Hele and because of me, she almost died. She still might.

"Why didn't you tell me I was a carrier?" I ask.

"Alba thought it might make you unstable, and that it might lead to you demanding to be vaccinated. She couldn't risk losing you as a symbol of our cause." He smiles wryly. "She's always right."

"So ... what now? How long until I find out whether it's worked or not."

"Oh, the immunisation works without fail. You only find out if it's going to kill you once you're dead. There's no warning, no symptoms, no anything. So, good luck. You're going to need it."

***

Yosiah

11:02. 07.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

We're in a grand ballroom that is further underground than the other rooms and corridors. It's enormous.

The walls are old and gilt, with angels and birds that I assume are doves carved into the stone. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of plastic chairs have been set out in rows, and at the front, even though I can't see from here, are seven chairs facing the amassed crowd on a raised platform. When I walked in I could just about see Alba, Timofei, and five people I didn't recognise sat in them.

The entire population of The Guardians' base is here.

Something big is happening.

I can't see most of the room from where I'm sat, let alone the front, and I seriously doubt I will be able to hear them. I'm starting to wonder how this meeting is going to work. I get my answer five minutes later when the walls of the ballroom flicker to life with small glass screens that were previously transparent. They show Alba. When she speaks, her voice echoes through invisible speakers.

"Thank you all for being here. I know you're confused, and worried, so I'll keep it brief. In the next fortnight we will be leaving this base for the free lands. We believe that Forgotten London will soon be in chaos and, according to our allies and sources, the town will cease to exist. Every citizen who lives here in the base will be led outside of the town, past the border, and into safe zones. The Guardians will focus on evacuating the town of its civilians and getting them to safe zones also."

She glances at a man on her left once she's finished speaking and he, a greying man of sixty, stands to address the crowd. He wears a long, brown garment that I'm sure had a name before The Forgotten Lands. He stands in stark contrast to The Guardians on either side of him.

When he speaks his voice is somehow withered but carries far. "We think that it's best to be honest with you all, since you've put your trust in us. The military is in the process of carrying out a plan against Forgotten London. They're following whispers from high up, possibly as high as the President himself, to destroy our town, us included. We've become more than they anticipated and more than they can control."

Everyone sits a little straighter, leans forward to hear what he says. He's important. I wish I knew who he was.

"But we will not be around to see their plan exacted," he goes on after a slight pause. "In exactly ten days' time we will make our way, secretly, outside of the border, and we will take every citizen of this town with us."

A number of hands shoot up and voices raise but Alba quietens them. The man sits down, each small movement deliberate, and Alba speak again.

"You'll receive instructions for the evacuation in the next two days. I'm afraid staying here, in the base, is not an option if you want to keep your lives. Anyone who has any issues, please find a Guardian and talk to them. Thank you for listening."

The screens die down and the speakers cut off with a scream. I look at Miya out of the corner of my eye.

She looks angry.

And devious.

"Whatever you're planning," I say, "don't."

"Who says I'm planning anything?" she asks innocently.

I laugh and she smiles a devilish smile.

"Dangerous?" I ask.

"Yep."

"Crazy?"

"Probably."

"Actually possible?"

"Yeah. I reckon it is."

I nod thoughtfully. "For what reason?"

"The hell of it."

I roll my eyes.

"And," she adds, "it'll probably help some people out."

I look at her with widened eyes. "A selfless act? Really, Miya?"

She shrugs. "I'm only in it for the excitement. If this town is going down I'm not gonna follow everyone else because The Guardians say so. I want to _see it_."

I know how she feels but I don't tell her that. "Alba didn't say anything about the town going down. If you'd have listened, The Guardians are going to evacuate Forgotten London before anything happens."

"Oh please," Miya snorts. "If these guys start stealing people from under the Officials' noses everything's going to kick off."

"All hell will break loose," I whisper.

She grins. "Exactly."

"And you want to be in the epicentre of it, I assume?"

"What's life without a bit of reckless, life-endangering excitement?"

"You," I sigh, "are going to be the death of me one of these days."

"Hey, I never said you had to come with me."

I raise an eyebrow. She knows there's no way in hell that I'm letting her go anywhere without me.

She touches my face for a fleeting moment and then she's darting up and pushing through the crowd of people trying to leave. I stand to look for her, shouting, "Miya, where are you going?"

When she turns her head she has the widest smile on her face and her eyes are glowing in the amber light of this ballroom. My heart thuds faster. "To clear the plan with Alba."

"What plan?"

"You'll see," she shouts, disappearing.

I shake my head and sit back down as I wait for the crowd to clear.

***

Branwell

11:36. 07.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

"Alba!" I yell. I hurry along the busy corridor after the leader of The Guardians, pushing around people and gasping out apologies as I go. "Alba, I need to talk to you!"

It's the first time in two days that I have seen her alone, never mind within walking distance of her office. The only time I was able to speak to her was before we set off for the vault in Underground London, but at the time I was far too distracted to remember that I had something urgent to tell her."

"Can't it wait?" she asks in annoyance once I catch up to her.

"No, I'm afraid it can't. I have been trying to speak to you for days. I've had a revelation, and I think that something terrible is about to happen."

"All right, all right." She releases an unladylike groan, holding the door to her office open.

I jump right into my explanation. "You know that I am here because it is where I need to be, and that I was searching for my father's device and The Weapon when I was deposited here. Honour suggested that I was brought here, to Forgotten London, because this is where the devices are being kept."

She looks at me for a long moment before saying, "That's all?"

"What do you mean 'that's all'? The whole city could be in grave danger! If the diseases you so fear don't kill you, and if at least one of The Weapon and _The Lux_ exists in this place, you'll be killed anyway. You do not understand the things they are capable of."

"What _are_ they capable of?"

"Killing everything in this world. The Weapon has two functions—it both burns everything in its path and collapses the ground from below our feet. It's a menace, and one that you should worry about if it truly is here. You should consider the possibility that your Officials possess it."

Alba's eyes are dark and thoughtful. "Tell me how it burns everything in its path."

"It ... scorches. It burns anything it comes into contact with. The man who invented it told me so himself. It would leave nothing standing and nothing alive."

"I thought so," Alba whispers. "But that's not possible. It can't be _that_ weapon."

"I am not sure what you mean."

"The founder of The Guardians wrote about a weapon that did the exact same things as you say. It sounds identical."

"Do you think that your founder came from the same time as I?"

She makes a noncommittal sound. "The weapon our founder spoke about was the thing responsible for the sun flares. Not that they were technically solar flares—"

"But they replicated them exactly," I finish. "Yes, that is what The Weapon is designed to do. That's what I had come to the conclusion of—that it was The Weapon that blackened your world."

"Oh God."

"So The Weapon from my time is responsible for the destruction from yours," I think aloud. "But that makes little sense. Whoever did this to your world must have been in possession of The Weapon and _The Lux_ since my own timeline. Why would they wait so long to deploy it? You say that the solar flares came twenty years ago?"

"Twenty five."

"Then why wait? Why wait over a hundred years?"

"Are you asking me or yourself?"

I stare at the far wall of her office. Papers and maps have been pinned to the wall, next to which is a framed photograph of a baby in a cradle. "Both, I suppose."

"There could be a number of reasons. But it might have taken them that long to pull together a strategy of how to use the machines. Being in possession of something doesn't mean you know how to use it."

I am sure, _adamant_ , that she is wrong. "No, they did. They must have done. I just cannot think of a reason to explain it."

"Not now, but the reason might come to you in time. You seem intelligent. You'll figure it out."

"And for now? Should I venture out into the city and begin my search again?"

"No. There won't be much point. You might as well stay here and come with us when we leave Forgotten London. There's a strong chance the military will blow up the town as we're leaving anyway, so that will destroy any machines they might have."

I shake my head in wonder. She has spoken the words but not listened to them. "And what do you suppose they will 'blow up the town' with, Alba?"

"Explosives," she says dismissively. She's clearly finished with our conversation, but I am not.

"The Weapon," I say. "They wouldn't need explosives with it, nor would they blow anything up. The ground would cave in. Buildings would topple over. _Everything would fall_."

"You're getting ahead of yourself," Alba says, though I can tell my words have her thinking.

"And you are underestimating the coincidence of my being here. That is to say—there is none. I am here for a reason, for some purpose. I think this is it."

"It won't matter either way. We're leaving this town."

"I think you're being foolish, Alba."

"And I think you are grasping at straws for some kind of sense. Thank you for your information. I'll let The Guardians outside of the base know to keep an eye out for your machines, but I am not giving you permission to leave for some wild goose chase. For now you're under the protection of The Guardians, and you'll follow our rules."

I force back every vile word that comes to mind. "Thank you for your time."

***

Miya

12:01. 08.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

I look at the cards in my hand and I force back a grin. I've won for sure.

I'm playing against three Guardians-in-training in the main common room of The Guardians' base. This is usually where the little kids and annoying idiots hang out, but today is poker day—and The Guardians play for money.

I've already won 20 credits, but my opponents have upped the stakes this time. They think they can beat me. If only they knew that this was how I used to make most of my money when I lived out in the real world with Yosiah. I'd take on the occasional bar fight for ten credits, but it wasn't really worth it for that little. Most of our money came from bets I would put on Yosiah when he fought. He was good, scarily good, and people knew it. He'd get anything up to a hundred credits for a fight and I'd make twice that in bets. But card games were my favourite way of making money, and I'm as good at them as Siah is at fighting.

Josh, the only opponent I know, purses his lips and puts another four credits on the table. I only have five credits down, but I plan to take away fifty.

It takes me another minute to win the game, and three minutes after that to convince everyone that I didn't cheat.

"She's gifted at cards," Yosiah explains with a smile as the losers walk away irritated.

"She's a devil." Josh laughs. He leans back and looks at me. "How do you do it?"

I shrug and collect my credits, turning each white plastic coin over in my hand to check that it's a legitimate credit. I'd have a hard time tracking down anyone who had given me a fake credit now, but I do it out of habit. Usually credits are checked before a game.

"I just do," I say. Josh makes me nervous in a way I don't like. He looks at me like I'm something he wants and I don't want him to want me.

A shriek saves me from having to talk to him anymore and we all look up. A tall, golden-haired girl attempts to run away from a livid-looking guy that's even blonder than she is.

"You!" she says, horrified.

Blondie catches up to her, grabs her wrists, and pins her against the wall. I'm on my feet in seconds, Yosiah beside me.

When I get close enough to the two I can see that the girl is as angry as the guy.

"What the hell?" Josh demands, striding up to the two. "Who the fuck are you? Marrianne, are you okay?"

The guy ignores her. He's taller than Josh, as tall as Marrianne, and actually he looks a lot like her. I wonder if they're related.

"Oh my God," someone gasps and for the first time I notice that Blondie didn't come into the room alone. There's a girl with him; tall, dark skinned, black hair in a braid that hangs over her right shoulder. She's skinnier than the last time I saw her and it makes her look taller. Her eyes are huge and scared and her hands are shaking.

"This is unexpected," I remark.

"Horatia?" Yosiah stares. "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in States?"

She shakes her head; her eyes don't move from Blondie. "No, I'm here."

"Yes," Siah whispers, "I can see that. Honour doesn't know, does he?"

"You're pathetic!" Marrianne screeches, disrupting Horatia's reply. She struggles against Blondie's hold and snarls at him like an animal. She's feral. "You're a coward, Marrin, you have been since a child."

"No," Blondie—who's apparently called Marrin—replies. His voice is low and powerful. I don't want to get on the wrong side of him. "I'm a lot braver than you think I am."

She cackles. I share a look with Yosiah that tells me neither of us know what to do. This fight seems to be about something beyond The Guardians and _way_ beyond us.

She hisses, "What are you even doing here?"

"Saving the world from you, Anna," he replies coldly.

For a while Marrianne stares venomously at Marrin and I wait to see how this will play out. One of them is going to break, I can sense it. I get the feeling that Marrianne is ready to explode, but Marrin's anger is simmering under the surface. I know enough about trying to control my temper to tell when someone else is struggling with it. One of them is going to blow, but I can't tell who it's going to be.

"What the _hell_ is going on here?" Alba shouts.

I jump half a mile. Yosiah's hand rests, for a moment, on my back. Marrianne takes advantage of Marrin's distraction to try and kick him in the shins. Impossible, but she tries anyway. Alba looks at the scene in front of her with a mix of anger and confusion.

The fight goes out of Marrianne all at once when she realises it was Alba who shouted, and she slumps against the wall. "He attacked me," she says in a weak voice a million miles from before.

I laugh out loud. Wow. Feral, vicious Marrianne has changed her whole self in a second. She's now snivelling, defenceless Marrianne. The only problem is that she's forgotten half of the room has already seen her for what she really is.

"Have you ever wondered how protected information of yours has been leaking to Officials?" Marrin asks Alba in a calm voice that sends a chill down my spine. I don't want Josh to look at me like he wants me but this guy can.

"We know how that information was leaking," Alba says. Her eyes flick to Horatia with a look of repulsion. I feel sorry for her because it's obvious what's happened. Going on Marrin's words, Marrianne betrayed The Guardians. Alba obviously thinks Horatia did it. "You leaked it all. You're responsible for the deaths of people you should have considered family. What were they to you—collateral damage?"

Marrin lets out a livid snarl. "It wasn't her! Don't be stupid. How would she be able to gain access to your plans? The military know everything you intend to do, the date you're going to do it, and everything else you want to keep secret. It was Marrianne who told them— _my sister_."

Marrianne whines, "Alba, he's lying!" She flicks a perfect ringlet out of her face and turns pleading eyes on her leader. She makes me sick. "He's lying."

Marrin goes on, ignoring his sister. "My name is Marrin Beaulieu." A gasp echoes around the room. They know who he is. I wish they'd let me in on it, because I don't have a clue. "This is Marrianne Beaulieu—General of The Highest Order, and most influential and powerful member of the military in Forgotten London. And you let her inside your headquarters."

Son of a bitch!

Alba takes a step closer to Marrianne. "Is that true?"

"No," she protests. "No, I swear."

Alba replies coolly, "You're lying."

A high, unhinged laugh bursts from Marrianne. She's dropped the poor, helpless act and realised the game's up. Either that or she's bored of playing along. "You got me."

"But ... why?"

"Because it's my job. Because you're the lowest of the low—sewer rats we call you. You're worse than the commoners, at least they know their place. You people sicken me."

Someone in the room shouts a string of names I'd be proud of.

Alba watches Marrianne with sadness. "We gave you a home. What did we do to deserve this?"

"You started to make people doubt. Do you know what happens when people doubt? They're killed. And when this useless town is gone, I will lose everything. All because you people are selfish and can't do what you're told."

"You—you're—I don't even have words for what you are." Alba's hands curl into fists. " _You_ were the one that told me about Horatia."

Marrianne smiles. Marrin pushes her harder into the wall.

"That was a lie, wasn't it?"

She smiles even wider. "She deserved it. She was sniffing around my brother like some pathetic lap dog. She deserved all she had coming to her." She lets out a choked sound and her hands flutter at her neck. Marrin grips her throat with a white-knuckled hand. Her face gets redder and redder. I start to applaud but Yosiah silences me with a look.

"Marrin," Horatia says. Her voice is gentle but it carries to him. He goes completely still. "Don't kill her."

Marrin lets go of his sister's neck and holds her by her shoulders instead. His eyes are on fire.

Alba nears Marrianne, her face grave. "Tell me everything you've done since you got here and your punishment will be less painful."

"You think I care about my punishment?" she spits. "I'm a military child. I was raised on punishment."

"Tell me."

Marrianne rolls her eyes. "Fine. I collected information and gave it to the military, to my father. He knows _everything_ about The Guardians. I got into confidential files, locked information, everything," she proclaims. "And I started noticing things. People you were protecting, for example."

"People like John Norton?"

"Yes. And his sister. Poisonous traitors, they were. So I killed them. Well ... I didn't kill the girl. I was clever with that one."

"Oh shit," I say under my breath and tap Siah's arm. I point to where Honour has walked into the room. He takes in the scene around him and then he sees Horatia. He looks so vulnerable I even start to feel sorry for him.

Yosiah goes to Honour, saying words that I can't hear. Honour shakes his head and eventually tears his eyes off his sister.

Horatia looks like she's gonna pass out. Against my better judgement, I nudge her shoulder. "You all right?"
"I ...," she whispers. "I don't know."

"So how come you're not in States?"

"Marrin," is all she says. I'm about to ask her what she means but Marrianne lets out another cackle. She's lost it.

"I had a group of Officials undertake a house check," she says. She finds Horatia in the crowd. "They took blood samples from all of you. By this point the brother was already dead. I killed him in his own room." She laughs, remembering. "On the sister's blood sample needle I had an Official put a sample of Strain Twelve. He didn't question it, just followed my order like an obedient little dog. And she died." She shrugs. "I'm proud of that one. They didn't suspect a thing."

"You— _you had Thalia killed?_ " Honour roars. His face gets angrier the closer he gets to Marrianne. Yosiah stays close beside him and he and I share a look. He's worried because they're his friends and he doesn't like people he cares about being hurt. I'm worried because when the people Yosiah cares about are hurt so is he. I've already seen him at his breaking point once this week. I don't want to see him at it again.

If Yosiah gets hurt again there'll be hell to pay.

"Oh." Marrianne smirks, looking at Honour. "It's you. The problem child. I couldn't work out what to do with you."

"But you worked out what to do with Horatia, didn't you?" Marrin seethes. "Why? Why did you do it? Why did you make everyone think she had betrayed them?"

"Because it was easy," his sister drawls. "It wasn't hard to get photos of you two together. That acted as my evidence. Besides, she was giving you all the information you wanted about her relatives. She might as well have been betraying them."

Marrin chuckles, his lips now smirking. "You idiot. She wasn't giving me information about her family. Is that what you thought?"

The smile falls right off of Marrianne's face.

"I was giving _her_ information—about the military, about our father, about the Strains. I told her _everything_."

Marrianne's glare could shatter stone.

Marrin's eyes glitter. "You messed that one up, didn't you, sister?"

"You traitor." She spits in his face and he raises a hand to hit her—he stops himself with what looks like a lot of difficulty. I know the feeling. Marrin backs away from his sister and The Guardians flood around him and take hold of her.

"I used to look up to you," he says as Guardians bind her wrists together. "I used to want you be like you. Now, you disgust me."

He turns his back on all of us, storming down a corridor that goes towards the dining rooms. Horatia goes running after him and she catches him around the waist as he stumbles. He looks like he's finding it hard to walk.

I go after them. Something's been irritating me. The Guardians all know him by name, but not by looks. And both Marrin and Marrianne mentioned their father. It doesn't take a genius to work out that their father's pretty important.

"Hey," I shout after him. Marrin stops dead and Horatia spins around. Her face is thunder until she sees me, then it softens. She doesn't know me well, but she knows me enough to consider me all right. Or that's what I'm guessing. Who knows what goes on inside her head—she did run off with Marrin and leave her brother behind after all.

"Hey, who's your dad?" I ask.

Half of The Guardians' base has followed me, followed Marrin.

"The President," he says tiredly. "My father is The President of States."

"Son of a bitch!" I exclaim.

Marrin turns around with a smirk. "Son of a bastard, actually."

***

Honour

12:24. 08.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

"Tia?" I call, following her down the corridor.

She doesn't stop or even turn around. She keeps on walking, with the Official from the Victory Day celebration leaning on her. "Horatia, for God's sake," I shout. "Listen to me!"

She turns to look at me with eyes so full of anger that I stop in my tracks. "What, Honour?" she hisses. "What could you possibly want?"

I demand, "What are you doing with _him_?"

If possible, her eyes harden even further. "I'm taking him to get help. He's injured. Not that you'd notice."

"The ... the infirmary is at the other side of the base," I say. I feel encased in metal—cold and weighed down, destined to drown like a stone in the Thames. "I'll show you," I rush out before I lose my voice. I turn on my heel and lead them away. The Official's feet drag on the floor.

It takes ten minutes to get to the infirmary. I wait outside while my sister and the Official go inside. A minute later Tia comes out, her dark hands clenching and unclenching. She drops to the floor and stares at the wall. I watch her for a while, as the anger slowly fades and a deep sadness fills her features. Pinned against her red dress, over her heart, is the sparrow brooch I bought her. I guess she didn't completely forget me while she was gone. Some of my resentment wanes.

"Do you trust him?" I whisper, sitting beside her.

She nods silently.

"Tia ... is he safe? He's an Official. Are you absolutely sure we can trust him?"

"He's a Captain," she corrects. "And yes, we can trust him. You have no idea the things he has done for you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"How do you think he got his injuries? It wasn't for _me_. He already had me safe, but I—" She inhales a ragged breath and I grasp her hand. I'm surprised when she doesn't rip her fingers from mine. "He went to the military headquarters to find information for The Guardians. He wants to help them. His father ... he kept hurting him. He did that to Marrin's leg— _he hurt his own son_. He ... Marrin was just trying to be _good_."

She starts to cry, really cry, and I pull her into my arms without a thought. I don't believe that the Official is on our side. I think he fed my sister a stream of lies to get her to trust him, but I can't explain his injuries. There's no faking them. There's also no faking that his sister, Marrianne, told us all that Tia was a betrayer, and that he was livid because of it. Why would he care about what we thought of Horatia?

I ask, "How long have you known him?"

"I ... about three weeks. Honour, he's different to most military. He's not like them."

"How do you know that, though?"

"He risked his life to save me, and to get information for The Guardians to save you. He's ... I think he's only doing it for me, but he's still doing it. There's a new Strain, one worse than Twelve, and Marrin found out that the military is going to infect all of Forgotten London with it. They're going to kill us, Honour. Marrin brought us here so The Guardians could stop it. He knows—he thinks—that he has an idea about how to delay the Strain. That will ... it'll give you chance to get people outside the borders and away from here. And—"

"Tia, stop."

She looks at me and I can't say what I was going to say—that if she thinks he cares for her she's wrong; he's using her to get to The Guardians—because her eyes are filled with hope. "I believe you," I say instead.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have left you. I should have brought you with us, but it was the only way. I couldn't come with you to The Guardians because they don't trust me. They think I'm the reason John and Thalia and Wes died. But I'm not, and neither are you. Their deaths have nothing to do with you going outside. I'm sorry I blamed you."

"It's okay," I reassure her even though it still hurts that she abandoned me. I remember, though, that I kept things from her as well. I didn't tell her why I was trying to get past the borders and I should have. I should have trusted my sister. Maybe if I had told her, she wouldn't have had to leave.

"You know now—it was Marrin's sister."

I nod, my chin ruffling her hair where her head rests against me.

"I wish I could have stayed with you," she whispers. "I wish I could have come here with you, but I needed them to keep you safe. I'm sorry, Honour."

The door to the hospital room opens and Tia stands so quickly that she sways. "How is he?"

"Sleeping," a young doctor replies as I stretch and push off of the floor.

"Can I see him?"

"He needs to rest. You can see him later."

"You're not letting me see him?" Her voice is angry but not surprised. She only asked if she could see the Official out of politeness. She always intended to get into that room. She crosses her arms across herself, nails digging into her upper arms.

"I'm sorry," the doctor says as he closes the door behind him. It clicks and a keypad on the wall lights up. There's only one way into the room, and she'd need the key code to get inside.

Tia's voice is pleading. "But he can't be alone! You can't leave him by himself. What if he forgets where he is? What if he thinks I've left him? What if he—"

"He'll be perfectly fine," the doctor says calmly. "His leg is healed, as are his other injuries, but he needs rest."

She shakes her head, swaying again. I put a hand on her back and stand close enough to catch her if she falls over. "No ... that's not right. His leg ... it's bad. It can't be healed already."

"We have advanced medicine here. You don't need to worry."

"But I have to see him!"

"Tia," I say calmly. "Let—"

"You don't understand what he's been through to get here. He shouldn't have to be alone!"

"I'm sorry, but—" the doctor begins to say.

I cut him off. "Do you love him?" I ask my sister.

"Of course I do," she breathes.

"You don't even know him. You've known him _three weeks_."

"Oh, shut up, Honour," she snaps. "What would you know about love?"

I open my mouth to fire out a reply, but all the fight goes from Tia at once and she sinks down the wall and begins to sob. I follow her to the floor. Her body shakes and her nails claw at her arms.

The doctor slips a syringe out of his pocket and, before Tia can notice, he injects it into her arm. Her eyes close and her body slumps into my waiting arms.

"Would you mind carrying her?" he asks me. I don't know whether to be angry or grateful for this man. "It's just that I think I'd better check her over and I'll have to open a door. It might be stress, but she did seem quite ..."

"Messed up," I finish sadly, bracing her weight against me as I get up. She's lighter than I remember but that might just be because I haven't held her in forever.

I have missed her so much, but she's someone new now that I have her back—someone that is my sister but not my sister at the same time. She seems older, I realise, as I lay her down on the infirmary bed. She's older and different but she's still my sister.

I won't let her leave me again, but I can't tell if I'm glad to have her here or not.

13:18. 08.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

I manage to persuade the doctor to let me see the Official but by the time I get there Alba is already sat with him. She looks up at my entry but lets me stay.

"You know I'm right," Marrin is saying. He's a mess—nothing like his appearance on Victory Day. "And you know it makes sense to let me go aboveground and try to disable it. If I'm correct I should be able to stop the distribution of the Strain for at least a day."

Alba rubs the bridge of her nose. "You say you came here for safety, but you want to go back outside. You're not making any sense."

"No, you're not listening. I came here to give Horatia safety, not myself. It was my intention to get your help, to tell you about the Strain and where the central computers are, and to go with some of your men to stop the damned thing. You _are_ planning to evacuate everyone, aren't you? Because when you start trying to get people out, the military is going to notice, and they're going to retaliate. I'm telling you that they'll detonate the new Strain as soon as they hear about the evacuation. If you want even the slimmest chance of getting anyone out, you need me to go up there and stop it."

"You know how to stop the Strain?" I ask. My voice sounds hopeful and it makes me angry. I don't want to put my trust, or my hope, in him.

"Yes," Marrin says tiredly.

"He _thinks_ he knows," Alba puts in. "He doesn't know for sure."

"There's been a steady influx of people going to the building. Put that with the military's plan and it doesn't take a genius to work it out. Add to it the fact that the building they're using is in Underground London Zone, but aboveground, and it's obvious that they're going to control the pandemic from that building."

"How do they do it?" I ask. I've needed to know this for months. "How do they get the Strain into the town?"

"It's airborne," Marrin explains, "so all that talk about the borders keeping out the Strains is bullshit. They have these machines; flat, round things about a foot wide. They spread them around the outer zones and it works its way to the inner zones by itself."

Alba narrows her eyes in thought. "Where do they put these machines?"

"Sometimes they bury them but most times they leave them in the Underground stations. That way they spread through the tunnels and get aboveground through the air vents."

She whispers, "If you're right, and they set off the new Strain when we're trying to get people out ..." She looks horrified. "Our evacuation plans involve the Underground tunnels. If they release the disease, the people we're trying to get out will die."

"And that's why you need me to disable it. I can't go alone though—that's the only issue. I'll need Guardians to make sure I don't get killed. And you don't have much time. This place is going to be a wreck soon enough."

Alba is silent.

I ask, with a sick feeling, "What does he mean 'this place is going to be a wreck'?"

"It's been confirmed that Officials are planning to attack our base. Tonight. Thanks to Marrianne, our location is known and we're no longer safe. Some of us will stay and defend our home, others will escort the civilians here to safety, but most of The Guardians are going to move somewhere else."

"Where?"

"I don't know, Honour," she hisses. "I don't have the answers to everything."

"There's only one plan of action that makes sense," a new voice says. Branwell is leaning against the doorway, dark circles under his sharp eyes. "You need to evacuate The Guardians because it is no longer safe here. You need to, soon enough, evacuate the whole city—sorry, town—because of this disease. If it were my decision, I would take The Guardians to wherever you mean to take everyone else, and evacuate both parties simultaneously."

"Outside the borders?" Alba taps her chin. "But the civilians here need to be evacuated today. That can't be done."

"Can I say something?" Marrin asks and when Alba nods, he takes a deep breath and speaks solemnly. "When your base is attacked, destroyed, infiltrated—whatever you want to call it—the military will discover your strategy to get the citizens beyond the town. It's inevitable. That is, of course, if they don't already know what you plan—thanks to my sister."

Alba's quiet for a long time. When she speaks, her voice is resigned. "Tonight—that's what you're saying, isn't it?"

Marrin nods and I think I understand.

Alba continues, "If we don't act today, everything will go awry. The military will let out the Strain before we have the briefest chance to run, everyone will die, and our town will be lost."

Marrin stays silent but his expression confirms what Alba says.

As she stands she says with confidence, "I'd better tell The Guardians to prepare themselves. We're leaving tonight. All of us."

"I'm going to Underground London," Marrin says and this time Alba doesn't argue.

"We'll need all the help we can get. If you're right, you might buy us enough time to be successful."

"I'm going with him," Branwell announces, shocking us all. "The disease is controlled by a machine. I am gifted with machines. I might be able to lend my help. I'll be more useful there than here, hopelessly trying to fight."

Alba looks at him for a long time and then she gives her consent.

"It will also give me the opportunity to deploy a device I have created to disable the electricity of your border."

Alba stares at him. "What?"

"You didn't think I had wasted my time doing nothing, did you? I listened to your plans, and a major flaw seemed to be finding a way to safely cross the fence—without being electrocuted, I mean. There was the idea of Honour's, but I came to the conclusion that it would take too much time and manpower and we will not have any to spare."

He takes a look at our startled faces. "So I set to making a duplicate of a device that I worked on at my home, and then I adapted it to better suit my requirements. It took me nigh on twenty four hours, but I am now confident that it will work."

"How _does_ it work?" I ask.

"It removes electric energy. If I deploy it on the border it will clear the fence of any and all electricity. _And_ since the rest of the fence is on the same circuit—or so your technologists tell me—it will disable the border in the entirety of London." He pauses, pulling at his sleeve. "I thought it was quite clever, myself."

"That's ... amazing," Alba says, openly shocked.

Bran brightens at that. "I call it _The Depowerer_ ," he announces proudly.

***

Miya

13:36. 08.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

"No." Yosiah's voice is steel. I cross my arms over my chest as he comes to a stop in the middle of the corridor. "Miya, this is crazy. You've heard what everyone's saying—what's happening now. The Guardians are leaving _today_. They're evacuating the whole town _tonight_."

"I know. That's my point."

"You have no time to plan—or prepare yourself—or finish your training—or do anything!"

"We're leaving this place anyway, right? What difference does it make if we go to the diseased lands or whether we go into the town?"

"It makes all the difference." His eyes are narrowed and dark. "You could be killed."

"We could be killed anyway," someone points out, walking past us. I laugh, but then I realise how public our conversation is. I yank Yosiah into the nearest room and hunt for the light switch. When I can see again, Yosiah's eyes are closed and he looks lost.

"Look," I say, "it's not all about me. And we won't be alone. A load of Guardians are going into the central zones to get people out. I wanna go with them, that's all."

He laughs hollowly. "That's all."

"We could ... help someone. Isn't that what you want to do—help people?"

"Not like this."

"How?"

"Alone. I want to help people alone."

I flinch and back into a shelf. A tin of white paint falls off and splatters my clothes. Looks like I pulled Siah into a storage room.

"You can help people alone," I mumble. A shard of glass has jammed into my heart. "You don't have to go where I go. I'll go with The Guardians on my own."

He pulls at his hair and I watch him getting angrier. "You don't understand."

I grit my teeth. "Then tell me."

"I'm not letting you go out there! Not tonight, not ever, and especially not when it's going to be a battlefield. You're going with The Guardians when they evacuate and you're getting the hell away from this town."

"So you're telling me what to do? You're not giving me a choice? I don't know if you've noticed, but _I'm_ in control of my life. Not you!"

"No," he growls. "You don't get a choice. _I'm telling you_ —you're not going into the fight. And that's that."

"No, it's not," I shout back. I shove his shoulder and his back hits the wall. "I'll do whatever the hell I want."

"Not this time."

_"Every_ time. What the hell is your problem? You've been acting weird ever since we came here."

"We were threatened and kidnapped to be here, in case you had forgotten. At first you resented The Guardians because of that but all of a sudden you're one of them."

My hands shake. "What is your problem with them?"

"I don't trust them. And I certainly don't trust them—any of them—around you."

I laugh, stunted and sharply. "So this is about me, huh?"

"It has always been about you."

"No." My teeth grind the inside of my lip and I taste blood. A muscle in Yosiah's jaw spasms and I snap completely. "You're lying. It's not about me, is it? It's about you."

His eyes flash but he clenches his jaw, not allowing a single word to pass his lips.

"So, what is it? Are you scared of them? Jealous? Planning to overthrow them? Is that why you don't want me to go with them tonight?"

He yells, "I don't want to lose you!" and I'm stunned. His voice breaks and he drops his head into his hands, leaning back against the wall.

All of the anger in me is gone and, after a while, I think I might be crying. "Siah," I whisper. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't know."

When he lowers his hands his face is composed and normal. He nods. "I know."

But I can see straight through him.

Something cracked inside of him when we came here, and the cracks keep getting bigger and bigger. I don't want him to break. Yosiah _can't_ break. He's all that holds me together. It's selfish but I can't lose him. I need him. I think I understand how he feels about us going to the central zones, because it's how I feel about staying here, where this place is gradually killing him.

At least I know that by tonight we'll be gone from this base and it can't break him anymore, but Yosiah doesn't have that kind of guarantee about us living through the central zones.

"Okay," I say with a defeated smile.

He rasps, "Okay, what?"

"Okay we won't go. I won't go. We'll leave with The Guardians."

"Why? What's changed?"

I shrug my shoulders, frowning as I look down at my jacket. It's showered in white paint and ruined. My jeans missed most of it, escaping with only a few splotches, but my black boots aren't black anymore. It's this damned place—stay in it long enough and even you turn white. I groan in annoyance.

Siah laughs softly; I think I hear fondness in it. "You can get a new one."

I look at him questioningly.

"A new jacket. I'll find you another when we go to the central zones."

I hum in acceptance and then my head snaps up to look at him in shock. "What? But—you said—"

"If you'd abandon the idea of going for me, I can accept the idea of going for you."

"But we're not going."

"Yes, we are."

"God, you're so confusing."

He half-smiles and he's back again. The hurt, angry Yosiah has disappeared. I wonder how long I can keep patching up his fractures.

He takes hold of my wrist, his fingers light and timid, and I pull it out of his grasp. His face falls and flushes with embarrassment, and I wish he wouldn't think the worst of everything. I hold his hand, tightly and protectively. I just wanted to hold his hand. The choked sound that comes from him makes me laugh. It's almost a giggle which makes me glare.

"If we're gonna die tonight, I want to hold your hand at least once."

"You've held my hand before," he points out, recovering quickly.

"Beside the point."

"In that case ..."

"No," I say immediately. I'm itching to smile. I try to bury it by biting my lip but it doesn't work. "No," I repeat.

"Not even once? Not because we're going to die?"

I shake my head. "Nope."

He tries to kiss me and I whack his shoulder so he can't. He's not even guilty; he looks at me as if to say _what did you expect?_

"Siah, what's your name?" I ask. "Your real name?"

"You know my real name," he replies. "This is the real me. Who I was before is someone I don't know anymore. My old name is a stranger's name."

"Timofei knows it."

Yosiah raises an eyebrow. "Does he bother you?"

"No," I scoff. I consider taking my hand from his so that I can cross my arms over my chest but I don't. "He thinks he knows you better than I do. It annoys me."

"You know me better than anyone ever has. Even better than the people who were supposed to be my family. Timofei does not know me better than you do."

I glance sheepishly at the floor and end up looking at the details on his shoes. Guardian shoes—they're too clean to belong to Siah. "I know that."

"But you still want to knock him out every time you see him."

"He has one of those faces," I mutter. "So are we going into central or not?"

"Yes. It's something you want to do, and ... apparently it's going to help people? How is it going to help anyone—us being aboveground?"

"We're gonna be with The Guardians, getting people out of the town. They have trains, Yosiah! Remember when you told me about them?"

He traces his thumb over the side of my hand absently. "Yeah. An Official dropped plans of one and I found them. It'd be nice to see what they look like moving."

"We can see them," I say enthusiastically. "We can see them move and we can watch the Officials fall apart and we can—"

He says fondly, "You want to watch Forgotten London burn. Of course you do—you're Miya. I don't know why I ever thought differently."

I smile. He's right, of course, but it's not _just_ that. "Siah." My voice catches with amusement. "You do realise you have paint on you, don't you?"

His eyes fix me with a dark look. And, somehow faster than my eyes track, his hand is smeared with paint and across my cheek.

I shove his shoulder. "Asshole."

He gestures to himself. "Now we're even."

"What part of this," –I point at my paint-smothered self— "is even?"

His smile is devious.

My eyes narrow at his expression. He's going to do the paint thing again. "Okay, fine," I rush out. "Let's ... go and find out what's happening."

He opens the door with a grand gesture. "After you, milady."

Honour walks right into the open door, producing a painful-sounding thump. "There you are," he breathes. He could have gotten a concussion but he doesn't seem bothered. He looks relieved if anything. Weird boy.

He gives our painted appearances a questioning look but dismisses it. "We're getting ready to leave. I wanted to say goodbye. Nobody knows if we're gonna get back or anything so ..."

Yosiah nods. "Where are you going?"

"Underground London Zone. The guy my sister came in with thinks he knows how to stop the Strain so I'm gonna go with him and help."

Siah claps Honour's shoulder. "Good luck."

I add, "What he said." I still can't get over Horatia's boyfriend being _the President's bloody son_.

"Thanks." Honour smiles, then frowns—something I didn't know his usually-smiling face could do. "I heard you're going into the central zones with the Underground trains."

"Yep," I confirm, beaming with victory.

With a suspicious glance at me, Siah asks, "How did you hear that?"

"Word travels in here." Honour waves a hand. "Anyway, I need to go find Dalmar. I'll see you soon. I hope."

"Bye, Honour."

"See you later," I say.

Honour nods a final goodbye and sprints down the hallway.

"Looks like it won't be tonight after all," Siah muses. "People are leaving already."

I cross my arms over my chest, nerves twisting my stomach. Siah brushes his shoulder against mine.

I joke, "Well we can't go up looking like this."

"You're right. You'd start a revolution by walking down the street."

***

Honour

13:58. 08.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

I don't mean to listen in on their conversation, but as I'm striding down the hallway to find Dal it's hard for me to ignore my sister's voice.

"Who are these people?" she's asking. She sounds worked up.

"I've told you everything about The Guardians," Marrin replies. His voice is level, calm.

"No. Who _are_ these people? How is it that their walls are so blank and empty, but their rooms are filled with things that cost more than it would to feed my family for a whole year? Why are old people here? How are people managing to live until thirty—let alone fifty? What kind of advanced medicine do they have that can heal your leg in _an hour_? You were messed up, Marrin. I know you were. I had to sew your wound for God's sake. I—"

"Hora," he shushes her and the gentle tone of his voice shocks me. So does the shortened version of my sister's name. "Calm down. Breathe, all right?"

"But who are they?" she asks, her voice muffled.

"They're people like us. They're trying to survive. And the expensive things weren't theirs to begin with. I recognised something of my own—a standing lamp that went missing from my living room a few years ago. It's stolen, all of it. I don't know why they live longer, or how their medicine works, but I'd guess that too is stolen. People in States live a lot older than twenty, you know?"

"They do?"

"Hmm. It's only The Forgotten Lands that have a life expectancy of twenty, and that's a result of poor quality of life. Even so there are pockets of people here that live longer. I think The Guardians would want to give States's medicine to everyone; to give everyone longer lives, but that would be impossible with the way the military monitors this town."

"They could try," Tia mumbles.

"I think they will eventually. But right now I don't care."

"Marrin," Tia chastises. "They could save hundreds of lives."

"I don't care," he repeats. "I'm selfish. I don't care what they do as long as it involves taking you to safety."

"That's starting to worry me." Tia's tone of voice is the one that usually comes with her pulling at the ends of her hair.

"What is?"

"The way you talk about getting me to safety."

"That I want you to be safe worries you?" he asks curiously.

"No, the fact that you talk about me being safe _alone_ is what worries me. You aren't planning to come with me, are you?"

He sighs. I hear a rustling of fabric. "I told you that I was going to try to be better. And that means I'm going to try and do the right thing. If doing the right thing means me being unsafe—don't look at me like that, I'm doing this because of you. Because I want to deserve you." His voice dips and he sounds embarrassed. "I just want to deserve you. Is that a bad thing?"

Tia's voice is soft and adoring. I don't understand how she can love him so quickly. "No, that's not bad at all."

I don't stick around to hear the end of the conversation. It's got to the point where people start kissing and I don't know if I have the stomach to hear that. I can't begin to work out the relationship between my sister and the Official. One thing is for sure, though—he loves her—and although that should worry me, it makes me feel better. At least now I know why he did the things he's done. At least now I can work on trusting him, for Tia.

14:14. 08.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

"Finally," I exhale, coming to stand beside Dalmar. He's with Hele. I should have guessed, but lately he's been in a million places at once. "I came to say goodbye."

"Where are you going?" Hele asks. She looks a lot better than she did the last time I saw her when she was pale, lifeless-looking, and unconscious. Now she's sat upright, looking like she did before she was infected.

"Into Underground London. With Tia's ... friend."

A tiny frown appears on her face, though she tries to hide it. "I suppose I knew you'd leave us eventually. Nobody can tie you down. It's in your name after all—Frie, like free."

I don't know what to say to that, so I avoid it altogether. "Hele," I begin hesitantly, "are you okay? I mean ... with the infection and the vaccine and everything?"

"I'm fine." She brushes off my concerns. Dalmar shrugs when I glance at him. He doesn't know if she'll be okay.

"Are you going with the rest of them to the border?" I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Or are you going into the inner zones?"

Hele shakes her head.

"We're staying here," Dalmar says.

Something electric singes my spine. Fear. "I don't understand. I thought everyone was leaving."

"A small number of us are staying behind. There are important things here that need protecting," Hele explains patiently

"But the military is attacking the base! You won't be safe."

Hele falls silent.

Dal looks at me for a long time before he says, "Neither will you. We're all doing what we think is the right thing to do. This is what _we_ think is the right thing."

I force myself to be reasonable, to not be as selfish as I was about Tia leaving. "I understand. I just ... hope this isn't the end."

"So do we." Hele rises from the chair she's sat in to hug me. "Whatever you do, no matter how unsafe and how dangerous it is, promise me that you won't do anything to risk your life unnecessarily. Promise me you won't sacrifice yourself in any way. Because you have a self-sacrificing nature, Honour. I think sometimes that you believe you're not good enough, but you are. You're worth more than this. And remember what your father's letter said—you have a purpose. So don't go throwing your life away, all right?"

"Okay," I agree uncertainly. She brushes my cheek with her hand and lets me go.

"Don't do anything stupid," Dalmar says. He's frowning. I wish I could stay with him and Hele, but I have an unexplainable feeling telling me that I need to go with Marrin. Besides, Horatia's in love with him. If she hears where he's going, she's going to end up going with him, and there's no way I'm losing my sister again. So I can't stay with Hele and Dalmar, but I want to.

I feel like I'm sacrificing one half of my family for another half.

"As long as you don't do anything stupid either," I reply.

Dal agrees, pulling me in for a brief embrace. "When are you leaving?"

"At half past."

"You'd better get going," Hele says. Tears fill her eyes so I hug her again.

She doesn't let me go for at least half a minute, and when she finally does she fusses over me, patting my hair down, straightening my clothes.

Dalmar smiles indulgently. "Hele, let the poor boy go."

When she does I nod to Dalmar and run. I run down the corridors until I get to my room because if I don't I'll never leave them.

Anxiously, I change into the Guardians uniform that has been left for me. The sleeves are too long but at least I'll fit in with everyone else. That's a new thing for me: fitting in. I've never felt like I belonged to anywhere or anyone, sometimes not even my family, but I think I could belong with The Guardians.

Branwell finds me hunting through my backpack for the few possessions I still value. I stuff John's research—even though it doesn't hold any mystery or confusion for me now—the letter from my father, and the still-unopened one from my sister into the pockets of my new uniform. It's all I care about now.

The letter from my father reminds me that I have a future, that I'm the child of The Unnamed, and that he believed in me to do something—to unite The Forgotten Lands.

The research reminds me that I have a past, that I had a family who loved me. It reminds me that I had a brother who knew secrets about States and the Officials. That John knew States was responsible for _The Sixteen Strains_ and the solar flares, and that he was planning to do something with that information.

John's gone, and I don't know _what_ he was going to do but I do know that whatever he planned was what killed him. He can't do anything with his research now, but I can still do something. I'm going to honour his death, and Thalia's, and Wes's, by making sure people know about States and what they've done. I think that's what John wanted to do—tell people the truth—so I'll tell everyone in his place.

I wish he was here to do this with me.

Bran brings me out of my thoughts by asking, "Are you ready to leave?"

"Yes," I reply mechanically.

"Honour, if I don't make it out of this alive—" he begins hesitantly.

I can guess what he's going to ask because it's what I'd want too. "I'll find your sister."

His eyes go round. "You will?"

"Of course. And if I don't make it out alive, you look after _my_ sister."

"You have my word."

"Thank you."

I lead the way out. I only have a rough idea of where we're meant to meet, but I find my way by luck. I find my way to a lot of places by luck.

Hundreds of Guardians are clustered around Alba and Timofei. I think for a second that they're _all_ coming with us to Underground London Zone but someone behind me is talking about preparing the Underground trains for use, and someone to my side mentions Camberwell Zone and finding explosives to get past the station barricade. I was stupid to think this was all about us. It's bigger than that. Even if _we_ don't succeed, there still needs to be some kind of system to move people from inside of the town to the borders so they can get out. I'm not sure how that's going to work—whether the trains will only take them so far and people will have to walk to the fence or whether the trains will keep going until the tunnels stop—wherever they stop. For all I know they could go all the way up the island and come out at the top of the diseased lands.

_No_ —the free lands. That's what my father called them in the letter.

Alba whistles for attention and silence takes its place.

"All right," her voice booms. "You're being split into four groups by purpose and ability to carry out that purpose. Most of you will be tasked with evacuating civilians. Some of you will stay here and defend our possessions and the things we are sworn to protect. Others will assist the civilians within our base through our tunnels and into the free lands. And few of you will travel to Underground London Zone to both evacuate the zone and halt the release of the Strain the military will attempt to detonate."

Someone's hand goes up and Alba nods at them to speak. "Why are we evacuating Underground London Zone?"

Alba's arms cross over her chest in sharp angles. "Because we have allies and friends and family there. And even if we didn't, the underground citizens are innocent and defenceless—and undeserving of a death like States intends for them to bear. Nobody is deserving of that, and Guardians, by our very mandate, protect the innocent. To leave them to die without our aid would be the gravest treason to our objective." She pauses, a powerful silence answering her. "Any more questions regarding Underground London?"

Silence.

"Those of you going out to evacuate civilians will be split into forty further groups—one for each zone left—and it will be your responsibility to get as many people onto the carriages allocated to each zone as possible. There are two train carriages for each zone, with a maximum capacity of two hundred and fifty per car."

"That's not nearly enough," someone protests.

I hear Alba sigh even though I don't see her. "It's all we have. The probability of everybody being ... alive to take a space on the trains is low. We expect the Officials to retaliate and a large number of the population to be lost. We can do nothing to stop it, but our evacuation will save _some_ people. Without us, everyone would be lost."

A murmur of agreement goes through the room. I'm not sure whether I approve of their ruthlessness or not. At least I agree with them saving some people instead of none. They could easily pack up right now and leave everyone to die.

"Those who are evacuating the zones, stay behind and I'll tell you your assignment once the others have left. Everyone else—you will find your head Guardians waiting for you. The list of Guardians evacuating the base and working under head Guardian Evan, are as follows—"

I tune her out until she says who'll be going to Underground London Zone. I don't know anyone by name but I recognise a face or two. There are twenty Guardians in total—sixteen to evacuate the zone and four to come with us to stop the Strain.

Horatia is stood with Marrin, looking furious and volatile. I think they've had an argument—about her coming with him to Underground London I'd guess. I thought I'd feel some kind of satisfaction at them not being completely together, because Marrin stole my sister. Any problems they have mean that they won't stay together—and I'll get my sister fully back. But no. Like everything else this month it's backwards. I feel worried because I think that Marrin makes my sister happy, and if they have problems my sister is going to get hurt. It annoys me how much I still care about her after she abandoned me, but I don't get a choice but to care about her.

I look at my sister uneasily, approaching with caution. "Are you coming with us?"

"Yes" she says as Marrin says, "No."

They glare at each other and I shift awkwardly. I look at Horatia like she's a new person, and I think maybe she is.

"I have a feeling she's going to come anyway," I say to Marrin, "whether you agree to it or not."

His glare shifts to me for a moment before he realises the truth in my words. Then he crosses his arms over his chest, grumbling too low for me to pick out any words. "Fine," he says to Tia.

"Thank you," she says stiffly.

"I don't believe we've met." Bran startles me; I hadn't realised he was right behind me. He holds out a hand for my sister and she shakes it warily. He looks bewildered for a moment, glancing at the hand my sister shook. "I am Branwell Ravel, an acquaintance of your brother's."

Tia looks at me questioningly.

"He's a prehistoric, time-travelling inventor. Or something like that."

"He's a _what_?" This comes from Marrin.

"It is incredibly complicated." Bran laughs, fiddling with the buttons on his Guardian jacket. "I do not know what I am either, to be quite frank."

"A time-traveller?" Horatia whispers. Her brows knit together. "Are you sure you didn't dream you came from another time?"

"I am certain."

Marrin snorts. "Well, this is new."

Bran takes his words seriously. "It is new. So—how are we to getting to the underground city?"

"City?" Tia asks.

"He has a different definition of City," I explain. "He means Underground London Zone."

Marrin drawls, "It's not actually underground." The anger has gone from him, and now he looks more like he's sulking than mad. It's a strange expression to see on an Official. "It's the underground zone we're going to but the building is aboveground."

"Oh thank Heavens for that," Bran breathes. "The last time I accompanied The Guardians underground ... it did not end so well. I was in the hospital for an hour and their methods of healing are somewhat painful."

Marrin's brow raises, and he's about to say something when The Guardians that are assigned to our minor task gather around us. They recognise Bran and me; I think we're practically legends in this place. I remember what Dalmar said about being a symbol of hope for the people in here but I feel more like a symbol of doom.

The four Guardians introduce themselves. The first is a balding man in his forties whose name I've forgotten already. The second is a guy about my age who has dark hair, crystal-blue eyes, and a serious expression. I think his name is Ross. The third is a quiet guy in his late teens; I don't remember his name either. And the fourth is a girl in her early twenties. She has dirty blonde hair in a braid and twinkling eyes. I expect the older man to be the head Guardian, but it turns out to be her. Her name is Nicky.

She smiles at me and I can't help but smile back. She's infectious.

"Shall we go, then?" she asks Marrin. The other three are suspicious of the Captain, but Nicky isn't bothered by him.

Marrin squares his shoulders and snakes an arm around Tia's waist. I think the movement is protective, but he could just be staking his claim to her. "How are we getting there?"

"Car."

"Heavens, not again," Branwell groans and I can't help but laugh.

***

Miya

14:27. 08.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

For the third time in a minute I try to pull the white jacket of The Guardians' uniform further down. My black leather jacket used to rest on the top of my thighs but this one is way too short. I wanted a bigger one but the Guardian who gave it to me insisted it needed to fit to my body to shield me. Apparently the leather's thick for a reason—It has Guardian technology in the middle that deflects stab wounds and bullets. Useful, life-saving, but _short_ and _white_.

White's the colour for innocent kids and people who are lucky enough to get married. Black is the colour for tough, angry street-livers. Black is _my_ colour. But The Guardians won't accept that so I'm forced to wear white. White shirt, white jacket, white jeans, white boots. I'm surprised they didn't try and make my skin pearly white to match everything else.

"You look fine," Yosiah says and I glare at him.

_He_ looks fine of course. White makes me look paler than a corpse, but it does nothing to Siah's Asian tone. It suits him—makes him stand out even when everybody else is wearing the same. He looks ... otherworldly.

I'm grateful for the small flash of colour that comes with The Guardians' symbol on my chest.

"You're doing it again," he comments and I groan at myself.

"I don't mean to."

He smirks. "I'm starting to realise that. Didn't I say we'd find you another jacket?"

I roll my eyes and nerves crash about in my stomach. "I think we're gonna have more important things to do than that."

He nods as if he's taken my words seriously but there's a glint of mischief in his eyes. He's planning something. I raise an eyebrow at him and he half-smiles.

"Wait here," he tells me. He's gone into the crowd of Guardians before I can say anything.

A minute later he returns holding a white jacket that's twice my size and I purse my lips. He laughs outright at my expression and then removes his own jacket, handing it to me. It fits exactly like my old one did. I decide that I can cope with the colour as long as it fits.

Yosiah smiles proudly at himself, wearing the oversized jacket. It doesn't look that bad on him and if I hadn't known it was huge I probably wouldn't notice the overhang on his sleeves. He turns them up once and he looks ridiculous but he keeps them that way.

"Thank you," I say, casually discarding the too-small jacket The Guardians gave me.

"No problem. You still have some paint on the back of your neck, by the way."

"Like I care."

He laughs again. He's done a lot of laughing today and I decide I like it. I want to make him laugh and smile all the time.

"Are you a hundred percent sure you want to do this?" he asks. "There's still time to catch up to the people who went."

About fifteen minutes ago the Guardian base residents left to go traipsing through the Underground tunnels to the diseased lands. It'll be a miracle if they aren't run down by their own trains, but The Guardians insist the tunnels have been specifically chosen for safety. It doesn't make sense to me but the tunnels are like a spider's web.

"A hundred percent," I say to Siah. Whatever happens, I need to be in the central zones. Specifically in Zone 39—Camberwell Zone. I know exactly where and when the train is passing through Camberwell for evacuation. I'm going to be on that train, and so is Yosiah, and so is someone else.

I ask, "Are _you_ sure?"

"I go where you go."

I want to tell him something but I don't know what. If he was my family I'd tell him I loved him. If he was an ally I'd tell him I was grateful for everything he's done for me. If he was a companion or a friend I'd tell him I was glad he's been with me all this time. But he's none of those things. He's ... all of them.

I can't think of anything to say but I _can_ think of something that will show Yosiah. I act impulsively; I jerk forward and curl my arms around Yosiah in a way that is awkward and tense. He hugs me back and it makes me self-conscious. I don't know if I'm doing this right or if I should be hugging him a different way or leaning into him or anything. I stand uncomfortably and rest my arms around his waist for a minute. He sighs and I can't tell if it's because I'm so incapable of physical affection or for another reason. One of his hands rests at the back of my neck in the tips of my hair and the other holds my back. It doesn't feel like I thought it would to hug Yosiah. It feels normal, like this is something I've been doing all along. Natural, even. And that is weird enough that I startle and break away from him.

"It's gonna be all right, you know?" he whispers.

I nod. Even if we die we'll die at the same time, in the same place. If we survive, even better.

A full minute passes before I realise that Siah hasn't let me go. The hand that was on my back is curled around my waist. Yosiah realises at the same time I do and he removes it with a confused apology.

I would have attempted to say something, albeit awkward, but a Guardian hands me something, shattering the tension. I have no idea what it is.

"Gas mask," Yosiah tells me. "Military issue, actually."

"You'd know," I smile slyly and he smirks. The irony isn't lost on me—that I, who despise military than anything else in the world, have a best friend who used to be an Official. He doesn't like to remember those days, and I haven't made him tell me. He's told me parts; he'll tell me the rest if he wants to, and if he doesn't I won't push him. There are things I don't want to tell him either. Things that will probably come out if I succeed in doing what I want to tonight.

"So what do they do?" I ask, turning the gas mask over in my hands.

"Protect you from _The Sixteen Strains_."

I look up at him. "Are they in the air?"

"Some," he answers carefully. "Some are passed through ways even the military can't determine."

"I wonder if The Guardians—"

"We don't know either." I turn to see who had spoken and find Timofei with a sheepish expression on his face. His eyes are locked on Yosiah with a fierce intensity. "I wanted to say goodbye. It's likely that we'll both die tonight, and I didn't want to leave with us like this. I'm sorry, for what I did and for leaving you. And for trying to ... you know."

A smile flickers on Yosiah's lips. "You don't have to apologise."

"No, I do," Timofei says. "I need you to forgive me. Maybe then I won't die blaming myself." He shifts on his feet and looks at me out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't want me to hear this. Tough. I'm not leaving Yosiah for one second.

"I forgive you." I'm shocked by the gentleness of Siah's voice. He only uses that tone with me. "I was angry and bitter, but I never once blamed you."

"I know," Timofei says, breaking into a smile. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me."

Timofei looks at the ceiling. "Do me a favour and stay alive, all right? You've lived through worse. Just ... don't die."

"I'll try."

Timofei's eyes drop to me. "You too, Miya."

I stare at him as if he's gone mad. "Me? You can't stand me."

"I can stand you more than you'd think. And besides, Vi thinks the world of you. I wouldn't wish losing a friend on anyone. If you make it out of the town, though, I think Alba will make you a Guardian. You've got all the qualities we look for in a person and you're brave. Bravery goes a long way."

"What would you know about me being brave?" I scoff.

"I heard what you were like when we brought you in. You stared down a guy with a rifle and even tried to kick him in the balls." I allow myself to smile smugly. I did. "You took out some of our best Guardians. I'd say that's pretty brave."

I shift my weight. "Thanks, I think."

"Tim!" Alba shouts, an irritated edge to her voice. "Will you stop gossiping and actually help me here?"

Timofei laughs and tips his head in goodbye.

"He's a complete weirdo," I say when he's gone.

Yosiah chuckles. "He is that."

Alba whistles, calling us to attention. This, I've found, is her only way of stopping the chatter—that or screeching.

"You all know where you're going. Stay close to your head Guardian and do exactly as they say. Evacuate swiftly and make your way to the next zones as soon as your carriages are at full capacity. Do not let on more people than you have room for. That will only end in disorder and chaos. Those of you with outer zone assignments will ride with Guardians assigned to inner zones and help them fill their carriages before your own. Likewise those with inner zones will assist with the outer zones. With cooperation and organisation we'll complete our task and make it through this. Good luck."

"We don't know where we're going," Yosiah points out and I put on my most neutral expression.

"Yeah, we do. We're going to Camberwell Zone."

His brow furrows. "Oh. When did you find this out?"

"When you went to get my jacket."

"But I was only gone for a minute, maybe not even that."

I shrug. "It wasn't a long speech or anything. A Guardian tapped me on the shoulder and said Camberwell Zone. That was it."

I try not to hold my breath. That'll be a dead giveaway that I'm lying. I have to think of it like a card game—It's a matter of bluffing and acting confident. It pays off.

Yosiah complains, "I always miss the useful stuff."

I don't let the relief show. "Camberwell group's in that corner." I point at a cluster of Guardians.

"In that case," he says, and I can see the nervous energy in his movements, "we'd better join them."

***

Yosiah

14:53. 08.10.2040. Forgotten London, Camberwell Zone.

I had wondered how they were going to get people out of their houses. It's one thing to say evacuate everyone but if people are still inside their homes, ignorant to The Guardians' movement, that gives an unfair advantage to the people already on the streets. I hate unfairness.

The answer comes in the form of the bomb siren.

I never knew that anyone, except for high up military, had access to it. I should have guessed that with everything else they've commandeered The Guardians would have high-tech military equipment.

As we traipse through the Underground tunnels to exit a station whose signs declare it to be Oval Station, I'm reminded of a night two years ago when I was surrounded by a similar siren. That one was lower, settling more into my bones; this one is screeching and deafening. At the time I thought the criminal siren would be the shrillest, loudest thing I ever heard. I was wrong.

They don't have criminal sirens anymore. They were used to guard Underground London Zone, but the siren disappeared along with the guards, the checkpoint at the zone's entryway, and the mesh fence that surrounded it. I used to wonder about the fence—whether it was to keep ordinary commoners out or to keep the wealthy, high status commoners _in_. I don't suppose it matters.

Miya bumps her shoulder against mine and grins. "Just like old times," she shouts over the siren. I laugh even though she can't hear me.

Yes, just like old times. Like the night we met.

When we hit aboveground the brilliant light blinds my eyes and I see some of The Guardians experience the same thing. I partially shield my eyes with my fingers and allow them to adjust. Miya squints through the light. Or glares. It's hard to tell.

The head Guardian, a stocky man with a colossal moustache and a scratchy voice, splits us into a further five groups—one for east, west, south, north, and the centre of the zone. There would have been only four Guardians per area but, as Alba said, the Guardians assigned to other zones help us like we'll help them in theirs. I'm thankful for the extra numbers.

We're the first stop on the route, since we're the innermost zone on our route—Camberwell Zone, through Greenwich and Beckenham, and as close to the border as we can get in Bromley Zone.

We need to move fast so we can get the maximum number of people on the trains and out of Forgotten London before the military starts to retaliate.

Because they will.

And I'm ready for it.

And so are The Guardians.

We run as soon as we know where we're going. Miya and I are headed to the centre of the zone with exactly twenty one Guardians.

She's tense, and I don't think it has anything to do with our task. I don't think it has anything to do with the impending threat of death either. I don't know what's wrong with her and it makes my chest ache. I wish it wouldn't. I have enough confusion about her without contemplating how my heart reacts.

She glances at me as we run and I almost reach out and take her hand like she did in the storage room but I don't. It's the tenseness about her that holds me back. I want to know what's wrong with her. I want to know everything about her. It's a new feeling for me; I'm used to accepting that I'll never know Miya's real name or her past or her thoughts and feelings. I'm used to being fine with that. I want to know why I'm not anymore.

It takes five minutes for us to reach the middle of the zone; an area which I realise is the namesake of the zone—Camberwell. The Guardians head straight forward, down a long main road, heedless of the people's stares around them. I wonder when we're going to stop and, when we do, how we're going to control the crowd of people that will surge towards the Underground station. I don't get the opportunity to find out.

Miya separates from the crowd of Guardians and takes off running down a road whose sign has faded and now reads Knat Road. I don't have to think twice. I follow her.

This is why she's tense.

This is why she was so adamant about coming to the central zones.

This is why she looked nervous when she said which zone we'd been assigned to.

Because we hadn't been assigned to a zone— _she_ decided where we were going, and in the pandemonium surrounding The Guardians nobody stopped to think us out of place.

Because we look identical to them.

The perfect cover.

Miya runs differently now. She doesn't push herself hard to keep up with The Guardians who are superhumanly fast. She pushes herself because she's desperate. I can feel it coming off of her with force. She's scared. I take her hand and we run together.

She turns down another road, one named Denmark, pulling me alongside her.

People have come out of their houses and are looking at each other with questions and fear. They watch us as we pass but nobody tries to stop us. These people don't know The Guardians, I realise, because if they did they'd stop us and demand answers.

We cut down a smaller road. One side of the street is a row of terrace houses and the other is a building that may be flats. Miya stops to catch her breath, looking up at one of the terrace houses with a daunted mask over her face. I want to ask what we're doing here and why it's so important but I can't. This has something to do with her past. What if she's come here to get her boyfriend, or husband? _What if she's married?_ is the thought that dominates my mind. We marry young in The Forgotten Lands where it's an accomplishment to live to twenty two. It's completely possible that Miya was married before I met her. What if she was never and will never be mine—because she already belongs to someone else.

I can't breathe and it has nothing to do with the running.

She's a hurricane charging up the pathway. She hammers down the door so hard her fist will bruise. I stand near the wall that borders the yard as she waits for it to open. A boy no older than eleven opens it and the tension drops from Miya's shoulders.

She screams " _Can't you hear the siren_?"

The boy gawps at Miya. A girl a few years younger than him comes to see who's at the door and her expression turns stormy. For a disconnected moment I think that these are Miya's children and that I was right.

She's not mine.

She's married.

She has children.

But they're far too old and she's far too young and I need to stop panicking.

_Miya will always be with me and nothing will change that_. I recite it in my mind like a prayer of the old and forbidden religions.

"CAN'T YOU HEAR THE SIREN?" Miya screeches so loud the whole street must be able to hear, even over the siren. It's not as loud here, though; it's more of an annoyance in the background than a pulsing scream.

"Mum said to ignore it," the boy replies eventually. His tone is dazed, awed.

Miya snaps, "Well, I say get the hell out of the house because the town is going to blow up!" Her hands are shaking. I want to take them in mine and calm her down. I've never seen her so frantic.

"Blow up?" the girl asks doubtfully. Her eyes are fixed on Miya and confused. "I don't understand."

"You don't have to. It's gonna blow up. You're gonna die. _You need to leave_."

The girl shakes her head, a sea of dark hair swaying with the movement. She glares at Miya, and the resemblance is so startling it takes me a moment to piece everything together. "You're dead."

"Do I look dead?"

"You're not?" the boy asks. He looks past Miya to me. "Who's he?"

"The guy who kept me alive all this time when Mum threw me out and left me to die."

"She what?"

"You heard. Now, come on. It's not safe for you to stay here."

The boy takes a step forward but the younger girl who I assume is his sister, Miya's sister, holds him back.

"You left," she says and her eyes are brimming with tears. " _You left_."

"No I didn't," Miya says, and then with a vicious honesty: "Mum threw me out. She said if I ever came back she'd throw both of you onto the streets as well. I couldn't do that to you."

My heart aches. My head rages.

The girl continues questioning. "Why are you here now?"

Miya growls, "Because _you're going to die_. Please, come with me."

The girl thinks about it. "What about Mum?"

"Is she here?"

The girl nods.

"Get her and she can come with us but be quick. We've already wasted too much time."

The girl returns half a minute later with a striking woman. Her dark hair makes the sharp features of her face even harder and her black eyes are unnerving in their lack of emotion.

"Get away from here," she spits at Miya. "You're not welcome and you're not wanted."

I wait for Miya to explode with anger but her shoulders slump and she lowers her head. No way, _no way in hell_ , am I going to let this happen. I step up behind Miya and put my hand on the small of her back under her jacket.

"You have two choices," I tell Miya's mother in a cold voice. "You either come with us and leave Forgotten London or you stay here and die. I suggest you make your choice quickly."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," she hisses in reply.

I nod. "Fair enough. We're leaving."

"Good riddance. Don't come back."

"There'll be nothing to come back to."

I slide my hand around to Miya's waist and lead her out of the small brick yard. I look at the boy and the girl, clearly telling them to follow us, and Miya's brother tries to take another step out of the house. A hand clamps down on his shoulder and he whines. His mother is hurting him.

"You're not taking my children."

I leave Miya by the gateway and approach the sharp-featured woman. I let my face fill with the fury and disgust I feel towards her and she takes a step back.

"Yes, we are," I say in a quiet, controlled voice. I make sure the children can't hear me; that only she can. "And if you try to stop us, if you lay another finger on any of your children _, I will tear you apart_."

She nods, swallowing, and she allows her children to follow Miya and I away from the house.

"We need to run," I tell Miya. She's struggling to breathe and fighting to not cry. She looks down at her siblings.

"We're going to have to run," she says with as much confidence as she can muster. She sounds broken and I need to fix her. She holds her hands out to her brother and sister. Her brother takes her hand without question. Her sister is hesitant but complies after a moment.

Miya breaks into a run, and the three of us run with her.

We go back the way we came and catch up to The Guardians near Oval station.

"No places left," a Guardian informs us. He takes one look at the hard look on my face and the heartbroken look on Miya's and adds, "But there are spaces for all The Guardians and we've lost two. You'll be able to find room."

"Thank you," I say earnestly.

We hurry through the tunnels, Miya pulling along her family, and me ready to catch her if she falls. The civilians are already inside the designated carriages, but The Guardians are only now getting on the train so we scurry after them. Nobody gives us disapproving glances for having Miya's brother and sister but I catch a Guardian about seventeen with a young boy clutching her legs and she and I share a look of understanding.

Our purpose is to evacuate as many civilians as we can, but family comes first.

My family would come first too, if I had any left.

*

Miya's brother and sister, Thomas and Olive, stay on the train with the Guardian and the young boy while we help evacuate the other zones. Once we get into the pattern of things it doesn't take long for the carriages to fill up. Most of it is crowd control. Miya is assigned to guide the civilians through the Underground while I count people on their way in and stop them when it gets past the allotted number. Six Guardians and I struggle to stop them from forcing their way past. We can't do anything to get them onto that train. We have orders to follow.

All at once I'm back in Official-mode. I'm a soldier again.

When we're back on the train, in the spare carriage full of Guardians, it becomes obvious that something is wrong. For one, the atmosphere is much tenser than it was when we left Forest Hill Zone, but it feels more than that. It's something deep in my bones. Now that we're on the move, something is wrong.

Lights flash in the darkness of the tunnel and I realise these tunnels are not like those in the stations. There is more than one track here—a whole circuit of them—and another train is moving five tracks over from us.

"That's not right," the head Guardian from Camberwell says. Others agree with him.

I watch the train and see what they mean. It isn't moving smoothly, it's rocking from side to side. What the hell is going on? Are the people rocking it? The train tips and I think it's going to fall onto its side but it rebalances. Our own train is moving, slowly but surely, beside it.

The rocking train lurches forward, attempting to move along the track. It edges closer to us, and I see people crammed next to each other. I see a child pressed against the glass, a cut on her head leaking blood down the side of her face. I see others too, injured and scared, panicking and not knowing what to do.

I know what to do.

I know how to heal them.

If only I could get across.

The train passes right next to us, rocking and staggering forward at a high speed. Our own train moves too, in the opposite direction, onwards towards Beckenham Zone our next stop.

"The route has been altered," a Guardian informs, looking at a small rectangular thing in his hand. "Norbury Zone has fallen."

A hush falls over the carriage and I just act.

I'm an Official medic. I know what to do and how to do it.

What I don't know is why I _need_ to do it, but I've never needed to do anything more.

I'm overwhelmed with the need to act.

So I do.

***

Branwell

14:56. 08.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.

The tyres throw up smoke and a squeal as the car flies across the rocky ground in front of a gargantuan wire fence. There are Officials stationed in front of it, and they run towards the car as soon as they hear it. The engine continues to purr as The Guardians exit and charge forward, heedless of the shadows coming towards them.

The Guardians, like the other times I have seen them, are faster than the Officials. They have the dark-clothed figures subdued within a minute. Others come, running from further down the fence, but they too are dealt with.

I don't waste a second. I approach the barrier, depress a button on _The Depowerer_ and wait for it to thrum to life. It does so with a vibration, and I hurl the device at the fence. Honour comes to stand beside me and we listen keenly as the hum of the electric fence fades away to silence.

"Is that it?" he asks.

I nod in confirmation and, confident in my own creation, run my fingers across the metal wiring of the barrier. "It is not powered, see?"

"Well done," the head Guardian praises me, then we're bundled back into the car and driving away.

A Guardian produces a small black device and taps it a number of times. Seconds later he informs us that Alba is now aware that the fence is no longer live with electricity. I want to inspect the device but I refrain from doing so. This isn't the time for curiosity.

We've been driving for little over ten minutes when the car begins to shake. I assume something is wrong with the vehicle but I spot a man outside gripping the wall to keep himself upright. I also notice several people fall over.

It is the ground that is shaking, not our car.

The automobile, despite everything, speeds up to a frightening speed and the streets pass in a whirlwind of colours. A deafening aching sound comes from behind us; I spin in my seat to see what has caused it. Honour does the same and we gasp simultaneously.

The ground has split in two, the earth caved in on itself. People and houses are falling into the crack. I wonder how far down it goes—whether it is to the Earth's core itself—but as the car begins to rock more violently all questioning thoughts flee.

The car pushes even faster and I suspect that we only manage to escape the ever-expanding crack in the ground because of sheer luck.

The canyon follows us for five whole minutes as we fly down the streets, but as we inch further away from the split it begins to get smaller.

Eventually it disappears from sight altogether.

"That was The Weapon," I say with certainty. "That is what it does."

Honour frowns, turning to face the front. "So it _is_ here?"

"Apparently so. You were right."

He is quiet for some minutes before he whispers, "I wish I'd been wrong."

***

Miya

15:34. 08.10.2040. Forgotten London, Forest Hill Zone.

Yosiah is jittery and it terrifies me. He's going to do something reckless and dangerous. I grab his hand in a death grip and he turns towards me. Determined eyes stare back at me and my breath starts to hitch. Whatever he's going to do will separate us.

"Don't," I warn.

"You had to save your family. I have to do this."

He presses his lips to my forehead and it's both over too fast and lingering.

_"Please,_ " I beg.

Too late. He's gone.

I gasp and try to move but I can't. When did this carriage get so crowded? Since when have there been so many Guardians? Why are my lungs screaming?

I'm trying to shout but nothing is coming out. I'm trying to move but Thomas's hand in mine is paralysing me. Yosiah is pulling apart the doors of the carriage and I wonder how much strength he must have to be able to do that, but then the thought is gone and the only one I can hear is:

Yosiah's leaving, Yosiah's leaving, Yosiah's leaving me.

When he jumps out of the door I scream.

It happens so slowly that I see everything and so fast that I see nothing.

The two trains pass by each other and then it's dark again.

I think The Guardians are trying to force the doors closed but it doesn't matter. Yosiah's gone and I can't go with him. I have Thomas and Olive to look after. I need Siah.

We come out into the next station but the train grinds to a halt. I'm barely conscious of my surroundings enough to notice the cracks in the walls of the station and the crater in the ground. I lean against the cold window and stare down the hole. Tracks hang over each edge of it. A train has fallen and I can see people trying to climb their way out. Yosiah's train. It must be his train. It doesn't matter that Siah's train was going in the opposite direction. I _know_ he's in that pit.

Yosiah's down there.

I jerk forward but a Guardian, anticipating that I'd do something, restrains me.

I break down.

I collapse onto the metal floor of the carriage as we back away from the crater. I don't care if we blow up anymore, or if we crash or tip over. I don't care. Yosiah's gone. Yosiah could be dead in that cavern in the ground.

He's gone.

It takes me forever to realise that Thomas and Olive are talking, trying to calm me down even though they're hurt I left them behind. They know. They must know that I need Siah.

Thomas curls against my side and Olive sits in my lap but it doesn't matter. I can't hear any of their words over the breath that struggles to get out of my mouth but it doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter.

***

Honour

15:39. 08.10.2040. Forgotten London, Underground London Zone.

This is the first time I've been to the buildings above Underground London Zone. Avoiding this zone is an unspoken rule for staying alive.

As we drive through the zone I feel cold. It's eerie, this place. It's not like the other zones where every house is teeming with life and people line the streets. Here is nothing but space and silence. It's not like the silence of the free lands, though. That was calm and unrestricted. That promised escape and safety. This is the silence of absence, and it promises nothing but death.

I'm shivering.

The buildings look as icy as I feel—blue and grey, made of glass. Some of them are gutted, their fronts smashed and hollow, but most of them stand as if they have been there before everything. Before the solar flares. Before States. Before the Strains. Before we were born. These buildings are as old as my father, probably older. I wonder if this is where he lived when he was alive: in the heart of the town.

We glide over a bridge and a cluster of buildings rise out the dusty fog. They're bluer than the other buildings but still somehow as bleak. Few of them stand at the same level as the ones we've past, but most tower over the others. I allow my mind to wander as I stare out of the window, and I imagine the smaller buildings as us, as people, and the towers as the lost royalty of Great Britain.

One of the buildings is taller still, and weirdly shaped. It looks like a huge finger held up to the sky. I crane my neck to see what it's pointing at but all I see is darkening sky and dust in the wind, so I stare at the pattern of the glass building instead. Thin ribbons of white glass snake around the blue shape of it and a darker glass curls the other way, crisscrossing over the network of lighter vines. It reminds me of my sister's hair, when the wind used to blow it into knots during the last quarter of the year when the air became hostile and furious.

_My father could have lived here_ , I think, as we get closer to the pointing building. Hele said that he was from an important family. It seems right that he'd live in the tallest building, so that everyone in the central zone would be able to see his home. I decide that's where he lived, The Unnamed—not that I can ever prove it, or that it does me any good. It just makes me feel better having a specific place to pin him to. From all the times I've heard about him, and from what I've read in The Guardians' books, he seems to be like air—everywhere and nowhere at once. Having a home makes him feel like a real person to me.

The car turns in the opposite direction to The Unnamed's building and I let it go behind us. I don't want Tia to question me if I stretch to keep staring at it. I don't want to have to explain my messed up thoughts.

Shock spikes through me when I realise—Tia doesn't know! She doesn't know about our parents or what they did, or even that we are royalty. She doesn't even know what royalty is. I need to talk to her alone, and soon after we get out of the car because I have no idea how this will end.

The car parks in front of one of the glass towers. It might be taller than The Unnamed's building but I can't tell from right beneath it. I can't imagine anything taller than this.

The Guardians are out of the car as quick as ever, and Marrin follows a moment later, holding the door open for Tia. I shake my head at the gesture.

"We'll go in first." Nicky gestures to The Guardians. "That way we should be able to stop any Officials we come across. You three," —she sweeps her hand at Bran, Tia, and me— "go behind us. Marrin, you can stay in the back and keep a look-out for anyone behind us. I'm gonna assume you can take care of yourself."

"I can," Marrin confirms with a sharp nod. His face holds no emotion anymore. He looks to be assessing everything like a good military Official. I feel sick. What if trusting him was wrong?

Nicky grins. "Then what are we stood here for?"

She spins on her heel and leads us inside.

Marrin asks in a hushed voice, "It's unlocked?"

"Not exactly." She spins a pen around her fingers. "We have ways of getting into buildings."

He reaches forward. "Can I see that?"

"Not in a million years. Guardian property."

An Official darts into our path, a barely visible shadow. He has a black stick in his hand and he raises it to hit Nicky. She strikes out with the palm of her hand and the Official goes limp, crashing to the floor before he can even touch her. She kicks the stick so it rolls to the side of the grand entryway and tuts. "I hate clubs," she mutters.

"Second-to-top floor," Marrin informs her quietly and Nicky purses her lips.

"That's what we thought."

We head up a suspended glass staircase, Bran and I hesitant and everyone else unwavering. I brace myself, feeling like I'm going to fall right through the unsteady glass, but it turns out to be solid and sturdy.

Two more Officials barrel towards us when we reach the first floor, but within ten seconds the Guardians have left them unconscious on the opaque floor. I notice Marrin shift out of the corner of my eye; he's moved to shield Tia with his body. I'm grateful, but confused. He's ... intense. Tia catches my eye and forces a smile.

"You okay?" I mouth. She nods but I can sense her fear. She shouldn't be here, but neither should I. Despite everything, I can understand why she came to this dangerous glass tower—for Marrin. Like I don't have a choice about being here for her, she doesn't have a choice about being here for him.

"Two Officials will be stationed on each floor," Marrin informs The Guardians, and he's right. For every floor we go up, another two Officials come at us. The Guardians are quick and quiet when they 'stop' the Officials. I don't think they kill them, but when the Officials are laid on the floor with glassy, staring eyes they look pretty dead to me. I don't know why that affects me. I don't care what happens to the Officials after what they've done and continue to do to us.

Except I do.

I suppose a stupid, hopeful part of me wants to think that the Officials don't know the full extent of what States has done. I want to think that a few Officials out there aren't sadistic or malicious. I guess I should take Marrin as proof of that—but if Marrin is both military and not a threat, how many more Officials aren't dangerous to us? How many Officials will die tonight for no reason?

That could be why The Guardians don't kill them. Or maybe it's because they have military allies and don't want to kill _them_. I don't know. I don't even know why I'm thinking about this. All I need to know is that the Officials are the ones who gave Thalia the Strain, and the ones who ration our food, and the ones who punish us for making our own choices and taking our own paths.

But maybe they don't have a choice.

I sigh out loud without meaning to and Bran looks at me in sympathy. Sympathy for what, I have no clue.

My thoughts about the Officials are the same as ever—bitter, furious, and resenting—and my feelings towards them haven't changed from the defiance I try to keep hidden. But something has changed. I don't feel _as_ bitter, and my anger doesn't have the overwhelming strength that it used to. Maybe it's because this life has broken me down. Maybe it's changed me for the better. I wouldn't know how to tell.

I'm hauled from my thoughts by the scratching rustle of The Guardians taking out another pair of Officials. A sign on the wall declares it to be: Floor 41 of 42.

Bran is looking around the stairwell with a frown. "How many Officials do you suppose there will be?"

"We don't know exact numbers," Nicky answers, "but I'd guess at somewhere between twenty and a hundred."

Bran chokes on a cough. I go cold all over. "But there are only eight of us!"

"Marrin," Horatia gasps.

Calmly, he replies, "It's all right."

"No, it's—"

"With The Guardians and me, we'll be able to handle it." He runs his hands over her arms and leans down to speak into her ear. I shift a little closer so I can hear what he's saying.

"—won't let anything happen to you, you know that. I'd die before I let anyone touch you."

"That's not what I'm worried about," Tia breathes.

"Stop worrying about me." He kisses her so quick that nobody else notices. I wait for it to turn my stomach, but instead of repulsion I feel sadness.

"Are you bothered by that?" Bran asks me quietly. "Your sister courting, I mean?"

"My sister what?"

He coughs. "Being ... more than platonic with a man."

"Oh. Yeah, it bothers me, but only because I don't want her to be hurt."

"I understand."

"Do you? Has your sister ever dated?"

He worries his lower lip. "I assume by 'dated' you mean the same, and no, not entirely. She was in love with someone when I saw her last, but I'm not sure she was aware of her feelings. I know what it feels like to worry for your sister's heart but still want her happiness."

I guess he does kind of understand. I try to smile gratefully but it comes out thin and wan.

Nicky motions for us to be quiet as The Guardians venture out of the stairwell. It's suspiciously quiet but I'm not sure what I thought we'd find. Officials charging towards us with battle cries maybe.

We tiptoe onto the landing—or maybe it's just Bran and I that tiptoe—without a thing happening. I strain my ears, paranoid of every space and every shadow. The landing leads into a wide room with a floor of glass and my stomach trips over itself. Through the floor I can see all the way to the bottom of the building. That's the first thing I notice. The second thing I see is the barrage of black in front of us.

Nicky groans. "So _that's_ why they didn't send more down to meet us. They were waiting for us."

There are too many Officials for me to calculate, but I'd guess at fifty. And they're all armed.

We're dead.

Think logically, Honour. What do we need to do?

The grenade. The one the head Guardian had in the vault.

Nicky says to a Guardian, "If they're any kind of clever a second wave of Officials will be waiting in the next room along."

I ask her quietly, "Those grenades that stop their guns—do you have one?"

"No." She sounds frustrated. "Those are on high priority tonight. We only have a few of them and those are being used on the streets."

I hiss a curse.

_Calm_ , I say to myself. _What's the next best thing?_

"Bran," I whisper. He stands straighter.

"What do you require?"

"The guns—they're not like the ones you'll have had back at your home. They're electric. They wirelessly take power from the nearest source."

"I think I follow you. We are going to have to break the circuit."

When I exhale my breath clouds the air. "You know what to do?"

His eyes assess the area. "More or less." The exchange takes little over a second, whispered fast and frantic, but it calms me. Someone knows what to do.

He holds out his hand. "Blade." I remove the folding knife from my pocket and hand it to him before he dives to the floor. The Officials don't move. They're waiting for our move. They don't know that this is it.

There's a square box on the floor, with cables running alongside it. Bran saws through the wires and the lights cut out. The Officials don't think anything of it. Why would they—they can fight perfectly in the dark. Each of their caps has a shield that flips down to cover their eyes, built into which is a night vision filter. But they don't even need that—it's sunset outside. They can see clearly, and they're still waiting.

As Bran returns to my side, Nicky snaps up straight. She takes a metal sphere the size of a fist from her belt and pushes an indentation on the side of it. A handle jerks out of the top. By the time I realise that the sphere has opened into a shining white sword, she's already stabbed two Officials.

_Now_ the Officials spring to life.

"Please tell me that will stop their guns," I say under my breath.

Bran fidgets. "If what you said is correct they will be unable to function. If you're wrong ..."

"Yeah, I get it."

I hold my breath as guns are raised and fired—

And breathe out when the shrill of shots is absent. Bran claps me on the back.

The rest of the Guardians jump into the fray, and so does Marrin. I position myself in front of Tia at the same time Bran does and we both protect her as The Guardians dance around the room. She doesn't sound happy about it if her grumbling is anything to go by.

I'm not sure what the difference between these Officials and the ones on the stairs is but this time The Guardians are using weapons instead of their fists. My face must show my question because Bran says, "I think it has something to do with the sheer number of Officials."

I suppose that makes sense, but my mind is still insisting that not all of the Officials are bad.

"They are not injuring to kill," Bran goes on. "If you watch you can see that they're only hindering movement."

Most of the Officials' injuries are on their legs, making it impossible for them to stand. While my attention is elsewhere, an Official charges towards us with a baton raised. I watch it sail through the air so that I know where to catch it but I don't need to. A pure-white blade goes through his chest from behind and the Official gags and falls. Marrin is behind him, sword in hand and a dark expression on his face. He doesn't spare Officials the way The Guardians do, but he's defending Tia so I don't feel as angry as I should.

Within five minutes the Officials are either collapsed on the floor or dead, and we're moving into another glass-floored room. This one is twice the size of the last one. Bran hunts for the electric box and repeats the process of cutting the wires.

Marrin avoids Tia like the Strains and I watch the hurt settle on her face with a frown. I slip my hand into my sister's and the shadow of a smile crosses her face.

"I need to tell you something," I say as I keep my eyes fixed on the room. This one is empty and free of Officials so maybe Nicky was wrong and those back there were the only guards.

"Honour, this isn't the place to talk. It's not safe."

"Exactly! What if we die here?"

She focuses her eyes on the back of Marrin's head. "What is it?"

"I found out something while I was with The Guardians," I begin. "Something about us, about our parents."

"I already know, Honour," she replies in a flat tone. "The Unnamed was our father."

"How ... how did you know?"

She tips her head towards Marrin. "He told me a few days ago."

"Oh."

She squeezes my hand and when I look at her she's smiling faintly. "Thank you. You could have kept it from me."

"I'm tired of keeping secrets from you."

"Me too," she says. My heart pounds. I haven't got Tia back, and we're far from being the way we were, but I think we could be like that again someday. If we make it out of this building.

She inhales sharply and pulls her hand from mine when we get into the next room. This one is bigger still, and its walls are curved and look out onto Underground London Zone. Tia marches forward and rests her hand on Marrin's back. I almost laugh. She wants to protect him. I nearly tell her that I don't think he needs protecting, but I figure she already knows that.

"Stay back," Marrin says in a low voice. "Stay with your brother."

"No."

There are four rows of Officials. God knows how many are in each row. Yosiah would know, I think. Yosiah can determine things within a split second. It must be something about growing up on the streets.

Marrin doesn't turn his back on the Officials in front of him, but he does reach back for Tia's hand. I have a feeling that he doesn't expect to make it past this room. I realise, with brutal certainty, that he'll die for Tia. I don't know if I can let that happen. Not when he loves her and not when she loves him back.

Bran cuts the power.

The middle aged Guardian who I thought would be in charge of us acts first. He dives right into the line of Officials with a weapon that moves so fast it blurs. A number of black shapes fall to the floor, but so does he. I can't see if he's dead from this distance but he doesn't look to be moving. The other Guardians go in after him and I lose track of them. They must be inhuman. No human could ever move this fast.

Marrin doesn't join them for a while. He hesitates, with my sister, but after a minute I can tell from the growing tension that he'll be gone soon.

"This is not looking good," Branwell says to me. Around half of the Officials have fallen, but so have half of The Guardians. The shy Guardian a few years older than me must be somewhere on the floor because I can't pick him out among the standing.

A group of Officials breaks away from the rest, surging towards us. Fifteen of them, I think. They're running at us and fast.

The only thing I know is that being logical won't solve this. I need to fight.

Marrin attacks.

He arcs his elbow into one Official's jaw and punches another in the stomach. He doesn't move as swiftly as The Guardians do, but for a non-Guardian he's impressive. By the time the Official he caught in the stomach has fallen, Marrin has kicked him in the side and grabbed another by the neck. In a haze of shape and a flash of white the Official sinks to the floor, and Marrin is blazing.

I almost think he'll be all right, that Bran and I won't even have to fight, but a black-clothed figure seizes Marrin by his collar and I can see that he's going to cut his throat. He doesn't. The Official erupts with a stream of vicious curse words; a dagger attacks his shoulder, his chest, his arm. Horatia is lashing out blindly and her entire frame is shaking with either tears or blind terror. Her blade severs his ear and he sways on his feet. My eyes search for his hands, anticipating them wrapped around Tia's neck, but they're held behind his back. Marrin and Tia are fighting _together_.

The Official jerks, trying to detach himself from Marrin, and Horatia takes the opportunity to rake her knife across his face. My sister is fighting, defending Marrin, and she looks formidable.

Bran hands me my knife back and I decide this is the time to be logical after all. _Weaknesses, I need to go for their weaknesses_.

I don't even think.

Another Official is going for my sister from behind. The room falls away from me, and, for a split second, I see the Officials in clarity. I see where I'm going to move and what I need to do.

I move, faster than I knew I could but not fast enough. The Official takes hold of my sister but my fist drives towards her throat. I'm rewarded with a splutter, and a distraction, but she doesn't let Tia go. Enough is enough. With as much force as I have, I jam the knife into her shoulder—but she tries to deflect the blow and it sinks into her neck.

I stagger back with my sister in my arms. Marrin disposes of the first Official.

I didn't mean to stab the Official there. I meant to get her shoulder to distract her. I didn't mean to do that. I think I've killed her.

I _have_ killed her.

I stare in horror as she claws at her bleeding neck. First she drops to her knees, then she falls face forward onto the glass floor.

My breathing goes haywire. I clutch Tia to me.

I jolt a few paces to my left when someone pats my shoulder. I turn, expecting Bran but getting Marrin.

"You did what you had to," he says stiffly, attempting to reassure me. I wonder why he gives a crap about me and what I'm thinking, but he says, "Thank you," and I understand. This is about Tia. I let her go then, realising I had been squeezing her hard.

I stare at Marrin for several seconds before my mind kicks back in. An Official is near us, but he's not attacking. There's another Official at Bran's feet. The Guardians—the one who I'm sure is called Ross, and Nicky—are stood at opposite sides of the room, an ocean of Officials at their feet. Nicky makes her way towards us.

"You okay?" She looks between the four of us. I nod vacantly. I'm still trying to get my head around Tia fighting someone. I never thought I'd see that, that I'd _have to_ see that, but now there's a completely new side to my sister. A side where she fights and defends the people she loves. No, that's not right. She has always defended us and cared for her family, but now it's like ... she does it without fear, without anything holding her back. Hele said that I was free but she was wrong. I'm restrained, I'm a caged bird, but Tia—Tia is flying in the open.

I allow myself a moment to stop seeing—to stop seeing the bodies, dead or alive. To stop seeing the scared look on Bran's face and the daunted one on Nicky's. To stop seeing the smears of blood on the glass, and the knives and batons that glitter with blood like the stars when the sky is clear enough to glimpse them. To stop seeing the way Tia's shoulders tremble and Ross's legs are unable to support him without the wall. To stop seeing the pathway that has been created by kicking bodies out of the way. To stop seeing the way this could have played out if the Officials had stopped doing what States told them to and joined The Guardians.

To stop seeing the life in everything that has none.

I allow myself to stop, and I fall into my sister's open arms. I cradle her and she cradles me. I wanted to comfort her, to tell her that she's okay and everything will be fine, but she's the one comforting me.

"I thought I was going to lose you," I rasp.

I feel her words on my skin. "Honour, I'm your sister. You won't lose me." When I don't reply, she says, "It'd take much more than that to kill me, you know?"

I'm starting to realise that.

This is my sister, the one I knew, who cared for people and would help anyone in need, but this is also the Tia that jumped over the fence at Victory Day and into Marrin's arms. This is the Tia that made a new life for herself. I might have gone into the free lands, but she is so much braver than me and I can feel it now. I can feel it as my hands ball themselves into fists of her jacket and I can feel it in Tia's gentle hand on my hair. It doesn't last long, the hug, but it means so much.

Tia has grown, has lived, has changed. And maybe I have too but I haven't changed enough—not for this new life, not yet. If anyone was born into the rebellion, it's Horatia.

I kiss her temple and let her go. We walk side by side into the next room—the control room—and I feel at peace with everything. Marrin was right about the room being on this floor. Marrin was right about a lot of things; that thought makes me uneasy. I still think he's playing us and he's going to turn at the last minute, but now I hope he's not.

The Officials that stand among us, Nicky explains, are their allies. I wonder if she recognised their faces or if there was a hidden sign that the rest of us missed. It makes me question the Official I killed, but no—she was going for Horatia. None of the Guardian allies attempted to hurt us.

In the control room are three Officials but no guards.

The far wall of the room is hidden behind computer screens like the ones that line the halls of The Guardians' base. There are three sets of controls, some like the circuit board inside the electric box near the border fences and some like the keyboard of Dalmar's computer back home. Some I don't even know what to call—thousands of buttons and flips and switches and lights and foreign symbols.

In the time it takes The Guardians and Marrin to make the Officials unconscious I still haven't finished staring at all of the controls. Bran, beside me, is talking in incomplete, awed rambles. I tap his shoulder to get him to stop talking. Doesn't work.

He gapes, mumbling, "I ... I cannot wrap my head around it. These devices—"

"Computers," I supply.

"They're magnificent." He edges around the chairs of unconscious Officials with a wide eyed, absent expression. His hands are out in front of him, reaching for a lever, but Marrin sidesteps a Guardian and takes hold of his shoulders.

"They're dangerous," he says to Bran, not unkindly. "If you press the wrong button the whole town could blow up."

Bran shakes himself out of it. "I'm sorry. I did not mean to ... I was wondering how this whole thing functions. How _does_ it function exactly?" He looks at Marrin with eyes that are overflowing with curiosity and enthusiasm.

"That doesn't matter now," Marrin says. I think I see amusement in his eyes but his face is so stern that I can't tell if it's genuine. "What matters is me stopping the Strain that's scheduled."

He guides Bran to the middle of the room—safely away from the computers—and pushes the Official in the middle chair onto the floor. With a practised movement, he seats himself in front of the controls and slips his hands into a pair of rubber gloves. Plastic straps snap around his wrist and I jump at the sudden movement. Marrin doesn't react. He takes a deep breath, then enters a series of numbers into the computer. The screens blink once and fill the room with a brilliant blue light.

Horatia glides past me to stand behind Marrin's chair. She rests her hand on his shoulder and he smiles. It's doesn't last a second but it was there. Tia doesn't just love him, I think; she makes him happy. I need to stop wasting time trying to understand them. They just _are_.

Marrin types another string of numbers and another until one of the screens goes black. On the black background is a jumble of letters and numbers that Marrin studies closely. We're all watching to see what he does.

He sighs impatiently and his fingers tap away at the keyboard.

"They know we're here," he says, "and they've sent another rotation of Officials. They'll be here in fifteen minutes."

"So be quick," Nicky says. She turns her back to us and guards the door. The other Guardians do the same.

"What do you think I'm doing?" Marrin mutters as two other screens change. Unlike the black screen, they provide a view of two streets that I don't recognise. I think one of them might be the one out front. _The Officials have cameras on the streets_. The thought shudders through me. Do they have cameras in our homes too?

Marrin's fingers press keys frantically and he growls under his breath for some reason or other. After a minute or two something pops up on the main screen in front of us. I try to read it but it's all in a specific language and I can't make sense of it. Marrin nods, though, and I'm glad he at least understands it.

He shifts from one chair to another, shoving the limp Official out of it without blinking. The tapping rhythm of the keys scratches at my ears. For a moment, the screens go dark but they come back on after three seconds. Marrin doesn't stop typing.

"They're resisting me," he explains. "In the main military base. They know I'm here and what I'm trying to do. They can't get into the controls to stop what I'm doing, but they can shut the whole system down."

Horatia asks gently, "What can you do?" Her fingers rub the pulse in Marrin's neck and the comforting gesture stabs my heart. What is she going to do if she loses him? The tension, yet again, drops from Marrin at my sister's touch. What is _he_ going to do if he loses _her_?

"Stop the release and _then_ let them shut it down. I'll have to be fast, though, and make sure they don't realise what I'm doing. I need them to think they've stopped me."

"Can you do it?"

His voice comes out uneven, unsure, "I don't know."

Tia drops her voice. Her words are meant for Marrin alone but the room is so quiet it carries "Is that you talking, or your father?"

His fingers still on the keys.

"Because," she goes on, "from what I've seen of you, there isn't anything you can't do. You're amazing, Marrin—breath-taking. I know you can do this, I really do. I believe in you. Can you do it?"

"Yes," he breathes.

He flicks on buttons and turns off lights and shifts levers so fast that his fingers are movement with no clear shape. He types seven keys on the keypad, presses three more buttons, and stops.

"Amazing," Bran murmurs. I shake my head.

Marrin spins in his chair to face Tia and takes her hand. "You," he whispers fiercely, and the adoration in his eyes is overflowing. "Are. Wonderful."

Tia rolls her eyes but her cheeks are dark and a smile curls her lips.

The screens die with a whirr and the lights fade from the controls.

"Done," Marrin declares to Bran and I. "They'll think they've stopped me. You have ten minutes to get out of here."

"But ..." Bran frowns. "Officials are on their way here. Won't they destroy the computer or restore it to its original purpose?"

"Yes."

"Surely we can't allow that to happen?"

"No."

The smile falls from Horatia's face. She wrenches her hand from Marrin's and turns on him. " _Don't you dare_."

"Oh," Bran murmurs. "I see."

Marrin says, "I'll guard the computer and stop anyone who tries to get through that door. I'm not letting this go to waste."

"We can do that." Nicky sounds offended.

"You could, but there are people outside this building that will need your help—people that will _die_ without your help. Your purpose is to save lives, isn't it?"

She nods slowly.

"So you'll be more effective with the rest of your Guardians than in here with me. I can defend the computer on my own."

She thinks about it for a minute and then sighs. "We'll be waiting near the stairs," she tells me, Bran, and Tia.

"I'm not leaving you here," Tia says, her quiet voice powerful. "If you think I'm going to leave this town without you, you are wrong."

"I don't think that." He rises from the chair. His hands might be shaking. "I know you too well to think you'll do what I want you to."

She crosses her arms over her chest; her eyes are glossy with tears. "I'm staying here."

Marrin kisses Tia. He whispers something to her that I can't hear, that I was never meant to hear, and I open my mouth to speak. Tia can't stay here. She has to leave Forgotten London. She has to be safe.

"Don't," Bran whispers, his hand on my arm. I look at him, silently questioning why he's stopped me. "That's a goodbye," he explains, nodding subtly towards Marrin.

I return my attention to the Official and my sister, watching as Marrin touches the back of Tia's neck with his palm—something he did earlier that made Officials unconscious. I see a flash of white in his palm.

For a split second I think that I had been right about Marrin—that he _had_ been on the side of the Officials and the President—but he catches Tia before she can fall, murmuring over and over again that he's sorry.

He looks at her for a moment, as he holds her. "Goodbye, Hora," he whispers and then he's putting her into my arms.

"Take her," he forces out, "and go."

"Why did you—"

"She wouldn't let me stay here. She wouldn't leave this building. I have to stay here, though, and you know it."

He does—someone has to protect the computer and he's the one who knows how to control it. "But ... they're destroying Forgotten London. You're going to get caught up in all that."

"I know," he replies, "and I don't care. I'll stay here, and I'll do this, but you take her now and get her far away from here."

"You're ... sacrificing yourself for us?"

"No." He chuckles. It's an empty, horrible sound. "I'm sacrificing myself for Horatia. Now _go_."

"You really do love her, don't you?" I ask. He nods stiffly. With uncertain movements, he returns to the switchboard as if he's waiting for it to come back to life. "Wait," he says abruptly and he spins to face me.

"What?"

"You aren't the only Forgotten Town to be targeted. Forgotten Paris has already been destroyed, and so has Forgotten Cairo and Forgotten Dhaka. They're working their way through all of The Forgotten Lands."

The news leaves me both shocked and unsurprised. I expected States to start targeting other Forgotten Lands, but I didn't realise they already had.

"These places," Bran interrupts. "Have they all been ruined by a device called The Weapon?"

"I don't know. The things they use don't have a name."

"But they refer to them as weapons, am I correct?"

Marrin nods. "Why? Is that important?"

"To me, yes. Thank you."

"There's something else," Marrin speaks, locked on me. "Colorado Town has been eradicated."

"I've ... never heard of it."

"It's a town in States."

I inhale sharply. "That's ... that means they've killed their own people. That's not ... that doesn't make sense. Why would they—"

"Because they were resisting," Marrin explains with a smirk. His eyes flit to my sister, lingering before he tears them away. "States isn't completely under my father's thumb. The people in Colorado Town were protesting. They might live in States but their lives are restricted the same way they are in The Forgotten Lands. They want more than they have—a lot like you here in Forgotten London. Other towns in States are resisting too, not as loudly or violently as Colorado but they are troubling the Officials. That's not good news for States, but it is for you, and for The Guardians. If you could somehow get into States and organise the resistance into a full rebellion ... I'm sure you can guess where I'm going with this."

It's Branwell that speaks, not me. "You genuinely want The Guardians to overthrow States? To overthrow your father?"

"Yes. He's out of control and power crazed. He's a psychopath. I'll be glad when he's not in a position of power."

"Those are strong words to use against your own father."

"He's not my father. He's a man that contributed to my conception, but he's not my father."

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask, cutting off Bran.

"Because Horatia is unconscious," Marrin answers honestly, "and someone should know."

"What do you expect me to do with it? I can't do anything."

He shrugs. "Maybe you can't, but I think Hora can." His jaw tightens and I don't think he meant to call her that. I don't think he wants anyone to know how much he cares about her. "I thought it was something you should know. Maybe you can tell The Guardians. I don't really care. Now leave. _Please_."

I understand his urgency. I need to get Tia to safety. God, what will she do when she finds out we left him behind?

"Thank you," I say as I move closer to the exit, "for taking care of my sister."

He laughs weakly. "I didn't do it for you."

"Thank you anyway."

He lowers his head, blonde hair obscuring his face, and that's the last I see of him.

I turn my back on Marrin, Branwell at my side and Horatia in my arms.

I get the feeling Marrin won't be the last good person to die tonight.

We walk through the room with the glass walls, and the rooms with the glass floors. As we descend the stairs I can't remember if Nicky said she'd meet us at the top or the bottom of them. She must have said bottom.

"Something's wrong," Bran murmurs when we've gone down twenty floors. "Can't you feel it?"

"This whole place is wrong, Bran," I reply tiredly.

He doesn't look convinced.

When we get to the bottom floor I realise why. The Guardians have gone. They said they'd wait for us, but they've left us behind.

"How are we to get out of the city now?" Bran asks miserably.

"I don't know," I snap. I clench my jaw against any other words and force a deep breath. How are we going to get out of Forgotten London? I know the answer as soon as I've thought the question—the same way I've always got around the town.

"We walk."

***

Branwell

16:42. 08.10.2040. Forgotten London, Underground London Zone.

I think that Honour would carry his sister to the ends of the Earth if she needed him to.

We walk with an unspoken urgency through the streets of London, Honour struggling to keep up with me as he bears the weight of Horatia. The aching sound that preceded the ground splitting in two can be heard in the distance and I can only imagine that half of the city is being destroyed. We walk for an endless time, in the direction that Honour insists will lead us to the border, but even I, a non-resident, can tell that The Weapon will have swallowed us before we've made it even half of the way.

"This is my fault," I say aloud. I didn't mean to speak but it comes out anyway.

"No, it's not," Honour replies instantly, angrily. "It's States' fault."

"If I had been able to find my father's device none of this would be happening. There would be no way to power The Weapon— _Weapons_. And none of this would be possible. You would all have your homes."

"That was all we had," says Honour. "That was all we were allowed—a place to live."

"You had your lives," I say. "You still do. Some people will have lost theirs, and I could have saved them had I acted sooner. I was a stupid, foolish child—locking myself away when I needed to act!"

Honour doesn't look at me. He asks, "Do you know that for sure, or is that a guess—that you could have stopped this?"

I frown. "I suppose ... I don't know for certain."

"It's not your fault then."

"I still feel to blame."

"You're not," he says decidedly. "I don't think any one person is to blame for all this mess. I think it's more of a thing that's happened because _a lot_ of people screwed up. It's like a series of events. This has been coming for years, I think. Yeah you might have played a part, but that's like a millionth of the whole blame." He pauses, staring at the isolated street before us. "Does that make sense?"

"Almost."

"I don't suppose you have any clue how long Horatia should be out? I thought she'd have woken up by now."

"A few hours, perhaps?"

"Right," he says dismally.

Gradually, we travel further away from the tall building in which we left Marrin. Honour informs me that we are at the edge of the zone and almost out of Underground London, and that is when the horrible groaning catches up to us.

We both turn, knowing what we are going to see but unable to resist looking. The glass towers tip on their axis and crash into one another. I pick out the tall building we left Marrin in and wait for it to fall. It shatters to the ground in a shower of glass and dust that rises around the cluster of buildings.

Honour makes a sound halfway between a gasp and a whimper and says, "No!"

I follow his gaze and watch a conical building slip and collide with another. The sound, the crashing and tinkling of glass, is so loud that I am sure we will be deafened.

"Are you okay?" I ask him.

He shakes his head. "That building ... it was ... where my father lived. My birth father. He lived there before he was killed."

I can't think of a reply that will sound empathetic so I lay a hand on his arm instead of speaking.

He watches the space where the towers were, where Marrin was, where his father's home was, for a stunned minute.

"We should move again," I say. "That destruction will catch up to us if we stay still for long enough."

He nods as if he's heard my words but he makes no effort to move.

I warn, "Honour. We must go."

He's immovable. I try to pull him away but to no avail.

"Please, Honour!" I beg. The aching has begun again, or perhaps it is that the falling of glass has stopped masking it. Either way it's getting louder, which means one thing: it is getting closer.

"Honour, we are going to fall into the Earth," I say desperately. "We're going to die. I refuse to leave you here!"

He doesn't respond and I play my last card, praying to everything that it will break through whatever stupor he's got himself in. "If we do not start moving right this second, your sister will be killed. Marrin's sacrifice will be futile. _Everything we have done will be futile_. Please!"

My heart sinks; he doesn't move.

It takes half a minute but his eyes shift downwards and he whispers, "Tia."

And then he starts to run, but so does the groaning, breaking ground—towards us.

I sprint after him but I know it is futile. You cannot outrun inevitability and it is inevitable that we will die. If towers crash and the ground falls why should we survive? What makes us so special that we would outlive all of this?

Luck, I realise. Luck is aiding us again.

A car screeches as it stops beside us. The door is hurled open and a man several years older than us jumps out.

"Get in." His voice leaves no time for questions. I question him regardless.

"Why?"

"God!" Honour exclaims. His mouth is open wide. "How are you—"

_"In the car, Honour!_ " the man shouts.

Honour explodes into action, bundling his sister into the back of the car while the elder man returns to his driver's seat. Honour slams the door behind him and I dive into the passenger seat. A moment later the car is flying over the road, and I discover that The Guardians' car has nothing of the speed of this one.

It takes less than three minutes for us to be clear of the quaking ground, and five minutes more for us to approach the border. I wait for the man to stop the car, to get out and cut the fence so that we are able to pass through but he doesn't slow.

"Dear Lord," I say under my breath, clutching the bottom of the seat. He's going to drive right into the fence.

The car bumps and jumps as we hit the border but the fence gives way under the force with which we slam into it. We sprint right over the fallen fence and out of the city.

"The free lands," I hear Honour whisper, awed.

"Who are you?" asks the driver, looking at me from the corner of his eye.

"Branwell Ravel. Who are _you_?"

"My name's John. I'm a friend of Honour's."

"How did you find us?" Honour whispers from the backseat. "And how did you—I don't understand anything."

"The Guardians told me where you would be. The Guardians who went with you were taken."

"Taken?" I ask.

"By Officials."

Honour leans forward. "Are they all right?"

"I don't know. They're captives now."

Honour sits back, processing this information, while I ponder The Guardians being taken but us being spared.

"You're ... not dead," Honour murmurs. "How is that?"

"Long story," John replies. "One I can't tell you now. I'm sorry, Honour. I'll explain it to you eventually. Promise."

We drive around a barren wasteland and I wonder how John knows where to go. There's nothing distinctive here—only short grass and an expanse of empty land. The grass does not grow, and I doubt much else does. It makes me wonder what we've got ourselves into by evacuating the city. At least inside the barriers there was life.

Behind us the city is enshrouded in smoke.

In front of us, rising from the dead ground, is a gathering of people. The car swerves and John tells us to get out and join them. I stagger from my seat, dizzy from the experience; Honour emerges with his sister in his arms. The car slithers away, leaving a spray of dust or ash or whatever it is that coats this grass in its wake. Its doors still hang open from our exit.

Honour lets out a cry and stares after the vehicle.

I survey the group of strangers and breathe a sigh of relief when I spot figures in white amongst them. Guardians. John, enigmatic and confusing as he may be, has brought us to safety, to one of The Guardian's checkpoints. I thank the Lord, and luck, for the man.

***

Honour

17:19. 08.10.2040. Forgotten London, near Bromley Zone.

The first thing I see is Miya. The second thing I see is that she's crying. The third thing I see is two children clinging to her, a boy and a girl.

It takes me three long minutes of watching her for it to click into place, and out of place. Yosiah isn't with her. That's why she's crying.

I walk up to Miya, my sister in my arms, and I wait for her to realise I'm here. It takes her a full minute to raise her eyes to me.

"Honour," she whispers.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." She smiles, and then the smile slips and she shakes her head. She takes a deep breath and says, "I'm not fine. You?"

"In one piece."

"Good," she says in a dead voice. She forces a smile, then resumes watching the ground.

I don't ask about the kids. I don't think I can handle her haunting eyes and her broken voice any longer. With nothing else to do, I go back to Bran with a dead weight in my chest.

"Their train collided with a collapsed tunnel," Bran tells me. "They lost half of the train and half of their passengers. The rear end of the train survived, though, and they emerged with almost four hundred civilians."

"How did you find this out?"

"I asked," Bran answers as if it's obvious. "I also discovered that they lost some of that four hundred on the journey from the train to here. They have a little fewer than three hundred and forty now. They're waiting here for anyone lost to catch up to them. People could still make it out of the city without The Guardians' aid, of course; especially those who live near the fence."

I nod. I'm not listening.

"Of course there is an equal chance that an antelope could come charging down the fence and join us for a tea party. You're not listening to me are you, Honour? I could say anything right now and you would agree with me."

"Yeah." I keep watching Horatia, waiting for her to wake up, dreading having to tell her about Marrin.

22:13. 08.10.2040. Forgotten London.

We walk for hours around the border, occasionally being joined by people who have made it past the fence. Tia wakes up when we start walking, and my arms are grateful that I don't have to carry her any longer.

I keep a close eye on Miya and the children with her. She doesn't talk even though the boy by her side keeps trying to get her to, and she walks with jerky, mechanical movements. It freaks me out—which makes me guilty and ashamed. I should be sympathetic to her. I know the exact feeling of loss and grief and I know how much it hurts.

The Guardians lead us, staying a safe distance away from the fence in case it's repowered but close enough that we can shadow it. I doubt the Officials have even thought to repower it, with all the noise and commotion we can still hear inside the border. Every so often we'll hear the sound of falling buildings or the groaning of the ground tearing itself apart. Sometimes there are the resisting shouts of crowds as Officials try to contain them. We do our best to ignore it, and to forget the reality of things; we try to forget the people still in there fighting to get out, and the Guardians attempting to help them. Mostly I try to block out the images that come with every distant crash of glass—the falling buildings of Underground London Zone—Marrin sacrificing himself for my sister—Bran's haunted face.

Tia stumbles beside me, her arms wrapped around her middle and choking sounds stuck in her throat. I don't know what to do. She won't take my hand and I can't hold or comfort her while we're walking. She brushes off anything I try to say.

More than anything I screwed up today, what happened with Marrin is what I would do anything to change. I wish I'd forced him to leave the computers, to come with us. I know that it's selfish of me, and that he held off the Strains long enough for a lot of people to be evacuated but ... Horatia shouldn't be sobbing, her heart open and broken for all to see. My sister shouldn't have to grieve for someone she's only just found. It's not fair.

I can't say any of this to her, though. I can't say that I want to rip the world in two for taking the only boy Tia's ever loved from her. I can't say that I have a lump in my throat the size of States because it was my fault, _it was my fault_ , that Marrin stayed. I should have made him come with us—everyone else be damned. I should never have left him behind.

But I don't say anything. I keep walking, and so does Tia, and so does Miya. We walk through the grief because we can't do anything else.

According to Branwell the main Guardian checkpoint—where all of the evacuees are converging—is near Edgware Zone, about a ten minutes' walk away from the fence and into the free lands. That's where we're going.

Dead End—that's what they call the area of diseased lands that borders the northern zones. It's meant to remind us what we'd find if we ever crossed the border and went outside: emptiness, Strains, and death.

The other areas of diseased lands have similar names. The lands west, around the curve of Ruislip, Harrow, and Stanmore Zones are called Lethal West. Below them, separated by the jagged edge of Uxbridge Zone, is West Vacant. The land on the opposite side, near the upper east zones, is called Fatal East, and below that is The Void. Southern zones are bordered by Dead South.

The names make it sound undesirable. They're supposed to stop us wanting to get past the barrier. They don't.

By the time we reach Dead End three and a half hours have passed. My feet are throbbing with pain and I'm about ready to pass out. Bran's even worse. We end up holding each other upright.

It takes yet another hour to get to the Guardian checkpoint, and I'm shocked to discover that our group is the largest. I do a sweep of everyone and guess at four-to-six-hundred people.

The people who lived in the base stand apart from the rest, dressed in white and grey clothes that glow under the moonlight. Guardians are threaded among everyone else, attempting to calm down the hysterical and give answers to the questioning.

I realise after a few minutes of detached listening that some of the civilians still have family inside the town—family dying inside the fence of Forgotten London that The Guardians are keeping them from saving. I doubt they'd be able to save them anyway. There are more fires now, more riots, more panic. Even through my clouded sight I can see that. The only thing going back would achieve is more bodies.

The town is screaming. People out here have to shout to be heard. I want to cover my ears but I don't think it would keep out the constant level of indistinguishable sounds. Everything— _everything_ is noise.

"Only three made it," Bran states, startling me with his loud voice. I'd forgotten he was stood with me. "Trains, I mean. And even those were battered beyond repair like the one that brought your friend. They transported more than two hundred people to safety in total."

My voice doesn't sound like my own when I ask, "What about The Guardians base? And ... the people who stayed behind?"

He looks away. "They've heard nothing from any of them."

"So ... Dal and H-He—they're dead."

"No," Bran exclaims. "They're with Alba."

Swallowing a sob, I whisper "Alba." It cuts through the haze in my head and my surroundings shift into focus. I hadn't realised I was seeing things any differently than normal but colours look more intense and everything is sharper. I raise my voice to be heard. "Where is she?"

Bran takes my elbow and guides me to the leader of The Guardians. Tia follows at my side like she's tied to me. I'm glad. I don't want her to be alone right now.

"Honour." Alba smiles when she sees me. "We thought you were dead." Her eyes shift past me. "And Horatia. And Branwell. How did you manage to escape?"

I shake my head. Not now. She seems to understand. She looks between us, for Marrin I suppose, and her eyes widen. Timofei comes to stand beside her but he's silent.

"What happened—" she starts to say.

I stop her. "It's better if we don't talk about it."

She glances at Tia and nods.

"Where's Dalmar? And Hele?" My heart hammers as I wait for the answer. Her face will fall, she'll tell me that she's sorry, that they stayed in the base protecting what they believed in until the end.

She frowns and a sob rushes from my throat. "They're with the Guardian residents. They ... resent me for forcing them to come here. I gave them a direct order—one they could not disobey—to leave the base with the rest of us. Some, bravely, remained to protect our possessions, but I would not allow Dalmar and Hele to do the same."

Because Dal is her son and Hele is his world. I understand. I want to hug the woman in gratitude. "Thank you," I say instead. " _Thank you_."

She doesn't acknowledge my thanks. Her eyes cloud over and she chews her lip; it's a gesture I never expected to come from her. "I know I am in no place to ask, but would you consider doing me a favour, Honour?"

"Uh ... yeah. I mean, it depends what it is." I'm not leaving my sister behind. No matter what.

"Would you talk to Dalmar, and tell him that I made them leave for their own safety? Would you tell him ... that what I did and what I said was because I value their lives—not because I am trying to control them?"

I blink in shock. That was a million miles from what I expected.

"No," I say. Disappointment softens her sharp features. "But I will tell him that you made him leave 'cause you care about him."

Her face goes sharp again and her eyes turn hard, but her shoulders sag and the expression is gone. "Just tell him that I didn't do it out of spite or the need to control his life."

"Okay."

"Honour," she adds as I turn away. "You do realise that this means I owe you?"

"It does?"

"Yes. Whatever you need, come to me and I'll do everything to help you."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

I walk away again but a question worms its way free of the tangle of my thoughts. "Alba, how many Guardians made it out?"

"Of the base? Forty one. In total? We don't know yet. We can't be sure until we know nobody else is coming out of Forgotten London."

"How will we know that?"

Alba's sharp eyes are far away. "We'll know when the town has fallen."

"It ... hasn't already fallen?"

"No. The zones have fallen, but the town has not. When that happens nobody will be able to get here, to the free lands. That's why we're here—waiting. We're waiting for survivors, but we're also waiting for the Fall of Forgotten London. It's why we're so far out. We can see the town, but its destruction won't be able reach us."

I stare at the smoke-shrouded town in the distance, fire licking at mountains of rubble. But that destruction isn't enough. It needs to cause more. I wonder when it will stop—the wrecking, the dying, the sacrifice.

Alba says my name. My eyes sting from the smoke. "We estimate that we'll have a hundred and eighty Guardians after the fall, not including those in other Forgotten Towns and the Cities."

"How many did you used to have?"

"More than a thousand. Later tonight, when we've found a safe place to sleep, I'll read a list of the lost Guardians."

My voice comes out scratchy and quiet. "How do you know which ones are dead?"

She doesn't speak for longer than a minute. "Because they're not here."

I force myself to nod.

"Speaking of not here—I'm sorry to say that Marrianne Beaulieu escaped during the attack on our base. We'll find her though, if she's still alive."

"She wrecked my family."

"And she'll pay for it."

I stand staring ahead, and it's a long time before she says anything else.

"Is your sister all right?" I look around me and everything gets out of hand—my breathing, my panic, my paranoia, my fear—but Branwell has taken her to Hele and Dalmar. Relief drags my breath out in a jagged gust of air.

"No," I say flatly. "Marrin is dead."

"I thought so. We've all suffered great loss."

I force my eyes shut to stop them from going to where I know Miya stands, to where she's been stood ever since we stopped walking. "Some more than others," I say under my breath. It's a moment before something Alba said comes back to me. "Where _are_ we going to sleep tonight?"

"As far away as we can get before we collapse—in the grass of the free lands. Tonight we'll sleep under the stars."

My head snaps up and I watch the lights in the sky. Forgotten London is falling and burning, but the stars are the same. I find one, the brightest, and focus on it. No matter what happens, no matter who we lose, that star will be there.

01:00. 09.10.2040. Forgotten London, Dead End.

Alba wasn't kidding when she said the town hadn't fallen yet. The entire ground shakes, even this far out, and people grasp each other for stability. Fifty more people have joined us, coming in groups of three or four at a time—families.

The Fall doesn't start with much, just a rumble of the ground and the same creaking sound from before. Someone points out cracks that are forming around the border, hugging the inside of the fence, and everything makes sense.

My guess is that the cracks go all around the border.

The noise gets louder, and people start backing away. I stand my ground to watch and so does everyone I know.

The cavern around Forgotten London gets deeper, wider, until it separates the whole town from the surrounding land. And then, much quicker than I expected, everything I can see—the remains of buildings, the fence, the smoke and fire—sinks. It falls, in one mass, down. Into the earth. Within a minute, everything is gone.

It is so loud that I cover my ears with my palms as I stare at the huge hole in the ground where my home used to be. It's gone—completely gone. Anyone who came here now would see a massive crater and wonder what had happened. Nobody would think that a _town_ used to occupy that space. There's nothing left. When I heard that States wanted to wipe out Forgotten London I thought they meant to kill everyone in it, not destroy all evidence of the place itself.

I want to dart forward, to the edge of the hole, to see how far down it goes. To see if I can find anything of Forgotten London inside the earth. Tia's hand slips into mine and holds me back.

We wait ten minutes, staring at the hollow, before The Guardians begin walking away and we go after them. There's no point waiting to see if anyone emerges. Alba was right—nobody could have survived that.

"Look," a Guardian calls, pointing to something in the distance, something moving towards us at a great speed.

The Guardians tense, bracing for an attack from Officials, but they don't need to. The closer the figures get, the more obvious it is that it's ordinary people. Even in the moonlight I can see that most of them are dressed in colours—drab grey, faded burgundy, sickly green. Civilian colours. Amongst them are sparks of white. They run together but they don't move as one force like Officials would; nothing is disciplined about this, it's only desperate.

I can't make out their features or tell if I recognise anyone until they're a few meters in front of us—at which point Miya makes a strangled sound halfway between a shout and a sob and begins to run.

Yosiah is at the front of the group, limping a lot more than usual. He begins to half-run-half-stagger towards Miya when he sees her. They meet halfway and Miya crumples as his arms come around her. Her knees give way but he holds her upright. He's holding her so close that it looks painful but neither of them seems to care.

"It's okay," Yosiah says over and over, one of his hands coming up to run over Miya's hair. I can't help but notice how much his hand shakes. Broken sobs take over Miya, shaking her body so much that Yosiah has trouble holding her up. They fall into the grass; Miya crushes herself to Yosiah. "It's okay, it's okay," he keeps repeating. He lowers his face to talk so only she can hear and I tear my eyes away from them.

Horatia is staring at the newcomers, searching each and every one of them. My heart drops. She's looking for Marrin, but she won't find him. I watched the building collapse. He couldn't have survived that. I squeeze her hand and she realises it at the same time I think it. Her eyes are red from crying, but the tears have stopped. When she buries her face in my shoulder, when I pull her as close as I can without bruising her, I feel her chest shuddering. I don't know what to do but I know that nothing could ever make her feel better.

We walk together, Guardians and civilians, away from the hole where our homes used to be. Away from all we've ever known. Away from Officials and rations and Strains leaflets. Away from house checks and work factories and Victory Days.

Of all the things that could have come into my head now that we're outside the town, now that we're free, the one that does is the Strains warning that played on the radio every night back home, and States's propaganda slogan that ended the message:

_Good and goodness will prevail_.

END

***

Read on for a preview of the next book THE WANDERING.

Out now.

Honour

23:27. 10.10.2040. The Free Lands, Southlands, Northey Island.

My name is Honour Frie. I am fifteen years old. I have escaped Forgotten London.

The free lands are not much more than a dead expanse of dust and burnt-out houses, occasionally broken up by a skeletal tree or row of brambles that look out of place in the epic nothingness. The island is so much bigger than I expected. We've walked for two days and we're still weeks away from the top of the land. I thought Forgotten London was big but The Free Lands go on forever.

We walked through the day, the high sun and cold wind arguing over the temperature, until we got to an island ringed by a grassy marsh that used to be clear waters. Brown grasses cover the surface of the island, serving as a makeshift mattress for those who sleep restlessly under the stars.

I can't sleep.

My paranoia tells me that Officials hide in the long grass, that the wind that stirs my hair is caused by an army charging at me, that the gentle lapping of the swamp water is soldiers swimming to kill us. My fear keeps my eyes open.

We haven't come across any Officials yet, but Alba expects to. That's why we're sleeping where we are—far away from the cavern of what was Forgotten London, on a small circle of land that used to be called Northey Island. We're moving gradually away from home, to a city in the north that will keep us safe—so I'm told.

I should feel safe here but I feel worse than I ever did in Forgotten London. I'm the most vulnerable I've ever been and I hate feeling like this. I'm exposed by the island's lack of buildings, freaked out by its absolute silence. Give me the noise of bars and the raised voices of drunken arguments and I would feel at ease. Because of the complete lack of noise, I hear sounds where there's nothing, which only fuels my paranoia more.

With every hour that passes I'm amazed I'm still alive.

But I'm free.

I escaped the Forgotten London border. I just don't have the energy to be happy about it right now.

Most people are sleeping so I have nothing to distract myself from my delusions. I roll onto my back and watch the unchanging sky for a few minutes. When I've finally decided that there's no chance of falling asleep, I tap Horatia on the shoulder to get her attention. She doesn't acknowledge me but I know she's awake. I've yet to see her sleep.

"I'm going for a walk. I won't be long, okay?"

Tia doesn't respond, but I didn't expect her to. She stares ahead, unseeing. I brush the damp strands of hair from her forehead, trying valiantly not to let my smile flicker.

Lumbering to my feet, I swallow my worry with a gulp of salty air and follow the edge of the island. I'm careful not to go so close to the edge, in case I trip into the water and drown. After an hour or so of walking I see a figure silhouetted against the inky sky. I almost turn back but I think I recognise the way he stands.

"Yosiah?" I edge closer to the figure and it takes the definite shape of my friend.

"Honour," he says without turning. His voice sounds how I feel.

I fold myself onto the grassy floor, running my fingers through the sharp, slick blades, and wait for Yosiah to join me. As Yosiah obliterates the grass beneath his feet with agitated fingers, I look across the water to the dark edge of the United Kingdom.

"Do you think we're safe here?" I ask.

"No." I think that's all he's going to reply, but then: "But we're alive, and that's a lot to ask for right now."

I rest my arms on my knees and my head on my arms. "How's Miya?"

It takes a few seconds for him to answer. "Bad."

"Sorry."

He stops ripping up grass abruptly. "I don't know what to do."

I don't know what to do either. I've nothing to suggest, to help, so I stay silent. He clears his throat and drags a slow hand through his knotted hair.

"Has Horatia spoken yet?"

"No." My voice is stuck somewhere below my tonsils. "Not yet."

"She needs time."

My sigh is visible as a cloud of fog cut through with moonlight. "So everyone keeps saying."

"Loss can destroy anyone." He glances at me. "How are you coping?"

I wish I knew. "I can't understand anything in my head."

"It gets better with time." He heaves a deep breath, and then a gasp. "Look over there, across the sea."

There's nothing but the blackness of the land. "I can't see anything."

"Not the ground." He points, and I squint in the dark to follow his attention to the sky.

"Stars?" I ask.

"Not stars. Do you see where the lights shine brighter? Where they look slightly blue?"

I do. There's a patch of sky where the spots of light are bigger and pale blue if I focus on them. "Is it normally like that?"

"No. It's an aircraft—a plane. The lights you're seeing are windows."

I jerk to my feet, my heart lurching with my body. "Can they see us?" I'm ready to grab my sister and run. I don't think I can outrun a plane but I can try.

"No. The range of their sight is limited. I'm pretty sure they don't have night vision."

I gawp at him as he struggles to his feet, unsteady on his right leg. "Pretty sure?"

"Honour, calm down. It's leaving." His jaw is set, his chin sharp in the severe light of the moon.

I give him a weak smile. "I'll calm down when you do."

"They'll be doing routine scans of the whole island for us. We're okay here. They won't search these small islands."

"What about the safe zones?" I search frantically for the spot of brighter lights. It's smaller than it was before. It is going away. "Officials will find them."

"The safe zones have been set up for years. They know how to stay undetected."

"But they're all kids! What if they—"

"Honour." He lays his hand on my shoulder. "They'll be fine. Don't you have enough to worry about, anyway, without another hundred children?"

He's right, I do. I need to find a safe place for Tia where she can grieve, get better, and live a happy life. I need to find a way to do what The Unnamed asked me to—to unite The Forgotten Lands. I need to find John and demand answers. I need to look after my friends. And I need, most of all, to make sure this never happens again. To stop States from killing more people.

All of those things are impossible right now.

"How do you survive, Honour? You worry so much I wonder why it hasn't torn you apart."

"Are you sure it hasn't?"

"Yes." His words are so strong that I look up. "You're still living, still fighting." He shakes his head. "I don't know how you do it."

"Thanks. I think?" He doesn't reply, so I fix my tired eyes on the sky again. "Are you sure it's leaving?"

"I'm sure."

I wait for my breathing to stop sprinting and then say, "They wouldn't be able to land here anyway, would they? This island's too small."

He gives me a long look. Then he says, "No. They wouldn't be able to land."

I hear what he doesn't say—they wouldn't have to land to kill us.

"I can't see it anymore." I try to watch every inch of the sky but it's impossible. I don't stop scanning the darkness, though. Every star is a plane. Every plane is a hundred Officials coming to kill us.

"Yeah," Yosiah says. "It's gone."

For a long while we don't speak. We just stare at the marsh and the land in the distance, the water around the island brushing against our boots. My nostrils fill with the tang of the sea. Standing up for so long, just staring in silence, I find a way to be tired again. I think maybe I could sleep now.

"Yosiah!"

I jump out of my skin, turning my head at the same time Yosiah stumbles forward a step. My body coils against the threat, my hand itching for a weapon. I sigh in exasperation. This paranoia is getting out of hand. It's only Miya, her hands in fists and her eyes blazing. Yosiah gives me an apologetic glance and then he's walking away with Miya cutting a tense shadow beside him.

I settle down in the damp grass and watch the sky for aircrafts until I finally reunite with sleep.

***

Miya

00:13. 10.10.2040. The Free Lands, Southlands, Northey Island.

When I was first on my own after my mum kicked me out, I had nightmares every night. They were always about losing Tom and Livy, and usually a shadowy figure snatched them away from me. I know that must have been a subconscious image of my mum, and that losing my brother and sister was less about them being taken from me than me being taken from them, but at the time I couldn't make any sense of them. The loneliness and the cold and the hunger of being homeless messed with my head. All I knew was that something evil had taken my siblings and I had to get them back no matter what it cost me. I tried so hard in those dreams to get to them but no matter what I did, they'd pass right through my fingers. Every night I woke up shivering, sweating, and crying on whatever floor I'd slept on that night. Gripped by a terror that bit deeper than any other fear.

This nightmare was nothing like the old ones.

This nightmare was worse. Now I have more to lose.

After my heart has given up hammering at my ribs, I sit up and take stock of the people around me. Olive sleeps on her side, one of her hands curled into a fist under her chin and her eyebrows lowered into a scowl. I don't know what creature is haunting her dreams but she looks ready to kill it. I pull my jacket closer around my sister's shoulders to keep out the cold and glance at Tom. He's flat on his back, his limbs thrown so far out that he takes up three times as much room as Livy. The jacket that's meant to be covering him is rumpled beneath him and the thought of Siah wearing a very creased jacket tomorrow makes me smile.

And that's when I realise he's gone. Yosiah.

He should be beside me, laid on his side with his long legs sprawled over the grass, but he's nowhere near. The long grass is flattened and rumpled so he must have lain here at some point, but not anymore. My gut squirms, something like acid clogging the back of my throat. Has he run away again?

I shove up from the floor on clenched fists, my joints creaking from all the walking of the past few days. With a glance to confirm that Livy and Tom are still sleeping, I set off walking in a random direction. The circle of land is small enough that I have to run into Siah at some point. I think about swinging my fist into his face. It makes me feel better at first, but as I trample the wild grasses, my thoughts seep in their poison.

What if he's gone for good this time?

What if he's found a better offer?

I stomp faster and faster, gritting my teeth as I follow the edge of the water. Eventually, I spot two dark shapes on the ground. One of them must be Siah, out for a nice walk and a chat with whoever the hell that is. Nails bite into my palms as I clench my hands tighter. I thought I'd lost him when Forgotten London was destroyed. I thought he had died. He must know what this disappearing act would do to me, what it would make me think.

I snarl his name, not bothering to hide how pissed I am. Siah leans heavily on his right leg, clearly unsteady, which lessens the heat of my glare a little. With the sharp tip of my fury gone, I'm floored by relief that he's still here. Alive.

"Have a nice stroll?" I snap. It's as calm as I'm going to get.

Yosiah sighs under his breath but the empty silence of the island gives nothing to cover it up. I aim a sharp look at him as he changes our direction, leading us back to the camp site.

"It's too exposed here," he mumbles. "I couldn't sleep."

"Missing the Guardians' base?"

He shoves his hands in his jean pockets. "Missing our shed."

That draws wistfulness from me. It might have had more leaks than I have fingers and been falling apart but the shed that we lived in for more than four months will always be home. It's the only shelter we've had for longer than a few days. "It was a great shed," I say, softening. My forgiveness is plain in my voice.

He's silent for the rest of the walk but I think I see a smile playing about his mouth in the hazy light.

I weave around the sleeping bodies of Guardians, scanning them until I find my brother and sister. I lie quietly beside Livy as Siah half-falls to the ground. I'm not gonna point it out to him, but his limp has gotten worse since he jumped off that train back in F.L. The urge to touch Yosiah slams into me, my stomach flopping. I press my palms together to keep them from reaching out. I might desperately need to know he's still here but I haven't stopped fuming at him for walking off without telling me.

Honour wandered off earlier tonight as well but I heard him tell his sister he was leaving, even though she'd never speak back. Siah should have done that too, told me. I need to know exactly where he is. I need to know he's not running off on some suicidal mission. I need—

I need him to get better. I need his leg to heal. I need him to stay alive, here, with me.

"I thought—" I can't get the rest of that sentence out. It feels like a giant lump of emotion is stuck beneath my voice box.

I take a slow breath and shut my eyes. If I can't see Siah's face I won't know when the guilt crosses it. I don't want to say this, to make him feel worse about everything, but he has to know. He can't keep walking away without telling me. And I can't keep having a heart attack every time he's more than a metre away. "You left—and you didn't say anything. And I thought—"

Heat pushes into my skin from where his hand has sought my wrist but I roll out of his reach. I can't let him touch me. I won't be able to hold the tears back if he does.

"I'm sorry." His whisper barely disguises the way his voice cracks.

"You left me on that train and I can't ... I can't forget that."

He repeats his apology and he sounds so wrecked that I open my eyes to look at him. I needn't have been so worried about seeing his guilt; I can't see his face at all in this darkness. I can only place where he's laid because he obliterates a cluster of stars. But the clouds must shift because moonlight falls through the night, quick and without warning. It highlights the intense expression that's taken up residence on Yosiah's face.

For a second I mistake it for anger, but I know what anger looks like on Yosiah. His jaw clenches, his eyebrows cut deep black lines of disapproval, and his eyes—his eyes burn hotter than a solar flare. But now? None of those signs. Just this steady, fixed stare that has my heart jumping. I frown at him for what must be half a minute, and then I realise I've seen him look this way before.

I skitter away from him, pulling my knees to my chest as a barrier.

Yosiah chews his lip, then says, "I'm not leaving you. Ever. Just so you know."

I bite down on my tongue because the words that want to pass my lips are something neither of us wants to hear.

"Shut up," I say instead. Siah's exhale sounds like relief. I chance a look at him and find the intense look gone. My body deflates. My ribs give a half-hearted ache as I sink back into the grass, facing away from Siah just in case he gets that look again. He doesn't touch me or move any closer but I know he wants to. I see his heated expression behind my eyelids and have to make an effort to keep my breathing regular.

Siah asks, "Are you still angry?"

"Very."

"Still scared?"

My face automatically shifts into a glare even though he can't see me. He's overstepped and he knows it. I am, though—still scared that I'll lose him. "Yes," I surrender.

"Can I hug you?"

I snort. "If you want to lose your arms."

He mutters a harmless curse. The grass whispers as he shuffles closer. My body relaxes, Siah's proximity a comfort blanket, even as my mind flares with alertness. If he puts his arms around me I might give him a black eye.

"Do you think the Officials are looking for us?" I ask to distract him.

"Yes."

"Do you think they'll find us?"

"Yes."

My inhale is sharp. "And then what?"

"And then we'll kill them." His finger brushes the back of my neck. I'm sure he's following the scar I have there. I have to fight simultaneous urges to shiver and to flee.

"Miya?" I hate the tone of his voice.

"No."

"I didn't say anything."

"Still no."

He huffs, removing his touch. "How are you feeling about your mum?" Now I really want to thump him. "She must have been killed by the collapse."

"Thanks genius, I hadn't worked that out for myself."

He's silent, probably thinking his quiet will coax an answer out of me. I make myself borderline comfortable and focus all my energy on going to sleep.

I'm not going to talk about this now. Or ever.

***

Thank you for reading!

I hope you enjoyed The Forgotten. The next two Lux Guardians books are out now! Get alerted when new books release and receive a free novella by joining my mailing list at <http://bit.ly/1sDAugj>

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Find these other books by Saruuh Kelsey:

The President of States wants the Frie twins and all Forgotten London dead - but why? And how is it related to the murder of the Ravel twins' father in Victorian London?

The Lux Guardians series

A Compilation of Side Stories

Under (Novella)

The Forgotten

The Wandering

The Revelation

Yasmin kills without meaning to - but she's powerless to fight Gods and mythic creatures.

The Legend Mirror series

The Beast of Callaire

The Dryad of Callaire

The Powers of Callaire

Non-series

Love In The Gilded Age

Wicked Song

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