Page 8 of The Bone Season

My knees suddenly buckled. Huddled in the corner of the shower, I drew them to my chest, shivering.

I wouldn’t be able to hide for long. Scion would match the fingerprints soon. A torch in my eyes, a needle in my neck, and I would disappear.

My head throbbed as I tried to think. I needed to get back to Seven Dials, but I couldn’t lead Scion to Jaxon. Vigiles would be swarming this cohort, making it hard to escape on foot. With the nearest stations closed, there was no way I could get to the den unless I found a bob cab, and they rarely came to this part of London.

Shit.

My father moved to the kitchen. By coming here, I had already implicated him.

He had worked for Scion for over a decade. I had to hope that would protect him when they came.

Until then, I would pretend. I couldn’t bear to tell him to his face what I had done.

Once I had changed, I went mechanically to the kitchen and put a pan of milk on the stove, following my old routine. My father had left my favourite mug out, the big one that saidGRAB LIFE BY THE COFFEE.

Scion was still deciding whether caffeine was a cause of unnaturalness. The same doubts had doomed alcohol. Most denizens played it safe and stuck to Floxy, the only Scion-approved high. (Then again,GRAB LIFE BY THE FLAVOURED OXYGENjust wouldn’t have the same ring to it.) As I poured the milk, I looked out of the window.

London sparkled before me. The complex was lit by a transmission screen, mounted on the highest tower of the Barbican Estate. It often ran live broadcasts of the latest public hangings.

At present, it showed a stylised anchor – the symbol of Scion – against a clinical white background. And that chilling motto:

NO SAFER PLACE

When I was young, my father had tried to protect me from that screen, to no avail. If I didn’t get myself out of this, my death would be next to appear.

Clasping the mug, I left the kitchen. Jaxon would tell me what to do. Before I could reach my bedroom, my father intercepted me in the hall.

‘Paige.’

My father worked in the scientific research sector of Scion, and had the frown lines to prove it. He wore the expression he usually did around me, composed mostly of caution.

‘Hi,’ I said, mustering a smile. ‘Sorry I’m late. I did some overtime.’

‘It’s all right. I’m always grateful for a visit,’ he said. ‘Let me get you something to eat.’

I followed him back into the kitchen. When he turned the lights up, my eyes watered with the pain in my skull.

‘You look a bit peaky.’ He opened a cupboard. ‘Are you well, Paige?’

His accent was pure Dublin. Working there for so long had rubbed off on him, and eleven years here had failed to erode it.

Not only did we sound like we came from different ends of Ireland, but we also looked nothing alike. He was a redhead, while my curls were icy blonde, kept in a bob. Where his pale face was freckled, mine was not. Apparently I looked more like my mother.

‘Just tired.’ I leaned against the counter. ‘It’s been a long week.’

‘I was reading about the oxygen circuit earlier. Horrible case in IV-2. Underpaid waitrons, pneumonia, seizures—’

‘The central bars are fine. The clients expect quality.’ I watched him lay the table. ‘How’s work?’

‘The usual.’ He set down two glasses. ‘Paige, your job at the bar—’

‘What about it?’

A daughter scrubbing counters for her keep. Nothing could be more embarrassing for a man in his position. How his colleagues must have sneered when they realised I worked atabar, notthebar.

Soon he would learn what I really did, and wish I had been telling him the truth.

‘I know it isn’t my place – you’ve told me so – but I think you should consider the University,’ he said, after a moment. ‘That job is a dead end. If you got your head down, qualified in French—’

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