Page 85 of The Bone Season

His jaw was locking. I made him wait some time for my answer.

‘I don’t know how much my oath is worth to you, solemn or otherwise,’ I finally said, ‘but I won’t tell anyone.’ I turned away. ‘Don’t sleep too easy, Warden. I’ll start thinking of my favour.’

‘I would expect nothing less, Paige.’

He really did hate me. I could hear it in his voice, tight with dislike.

In the parlour, the clock struck the hour. Before I could march out of the bedchamber, Pleione Sualocin swept into it, a man in grey behind her. They both stopped dead at the sight of me.

At first, I thought the man was amaurotic, from his tunic. Then I noticed his gentle aura – the aura of an unreadable, a voyant whose dreamscape had collapsed and regrown with thick armour. I slowly looked over my shoulder, disgust rising in my gut.

‘You may go,’ Warden said.

So that was why he could last without my aura. I went back to his bedside and leaned in close, looking him straight in the eyes.

‘Next time,’ I said softly, ‘I hope you bleed to death in the fucking woods.’

Warden raised his chin. I walked out.

AFTER THE POPPIES

17 April 2056

I first met Nick Nygård when I was nine. The next time I saw him, I was sixteen.

It was the balmy spring of 2056. At the Ancroft School in Bloomsbury, the students in my year group had an important decision to make. We could stay on for another two years and apply to the University of Scion London, or jump ship and look for a job.

To convert the undecided, the Schoolmistress had organised a lecture series from ‘inspirational’ (her word) speakers, with talks held every week during our last compulsory year. Some of them were former Ancroft students, while others had flown in from elsewhere in Scion. All of them had at least one degree.

I had no intention of going to the University. What else London could offer a young Irish woman, I didn’t yet know, but anything was better than two more years at Ancroft.

It was a grand building on Russell Square, formerly a hotel, with its own coffeehouse and roof terrace and a famous student orchestra. To everyone else in London, it was a perfect school. To me, it was a glorified prison, reminding me I would never belong.

That day, some of the teachers shepherded my year group into the lecture hall, all in our black suits and starched white blouses. Emma Briskin, head of chemistry, stepped up to the lectern.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ she said. ‘Today marks the last of our inspirational lectures in the sciences. Many of you excel in this field, and Ancroft looks forward to your long and successful careers.’

Even with the windows cracked, the hall was sweltering. I crossed my arms and slouched in my seat, wishing this could be over.

‘Our speaker today is from Sweden. He transferred from the Scion Citadel of Stockholm, finished his medical training in London, and now works as a lab technician at the Special Organisation for Research and Science, colloquially known as SciSORS.’

That was where my father worked.

‘Now, please give a warm Ancroft welcome to Dr Nicklas Nygård.’

It couldn’t be him.

Surely it couldn’t.

He arrived on the stage to a storm of applause. My saviour from the poppy field was just as I remembered him, except for the tailored suit and pomade. When he reached the lectern, he smiled.

‘Good morning, everyone.’

‘Good morning, Dr Nygård,’ we chorused.

‘Thank you for having me here in Bloomsbury,’ Nick said. ‘I know it’s too nice a day for a lecture, so I won’t take offence if you fall asleep.’

That got some chuckles. Most of the speakers had been dry as baked sawdust.

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