One Saturday, after karate finishes, we see that Bryan has an expensive-looking pair of Nikes on. He says, “I might get fit now. Now I’ve got the neck brace off.”

Liam says, “Too right, mate. Just do it, that’s my motto.”

Joe and I lie on our backs on top of the low wall and get out our Marlboros. I am working on a series of three rings with a small one going through the center of them all. I have nearly got this to work when someone comes out of the emergency exit and shouts, “Which one of you shits has taken my trainers?”

I finish blowing smoke and look over at the boy. He is one of the black-belt kids, but he is in jeans now, though still barefoot.

Liam and Bryan have disappeared.

“I want them back. Now!” Black Belt Boy advances on me and Joe.

I don’t get up but lift my feet in my scruffy boots, saying, “I haven’t got them.”

Joe sits up and bangs the heels of his old gray trainers on the wall, but doesn’t say anything. He blows a smoke ring and then a beautiful cigar-shaped missile of smoke that sails through the middle of the ring into the boy’s face.

I sit up and say, “We saw you practicing kung fu.”

“Karate.”

“Right . . . karate. You’re a black belt, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“If you can knock me down I’ll get you your shoes back.”

Joe laughs. “Oh yeah, a challenge.”

“But if I knock you down you let whoever’s got them keep them.”

Black Belt Boy doesn’t need to think about this for more than a second. He is a head taller than me and at least ten kilos heavier, and I guess he’s fairly sure I am no black belt. He gets straight into his fighting stance and says, “Come on then.”

I take the cigarette out of my mouth and reach across as if to pass it to Joe, but at the same time I raise my legs to put my feet on the edge of the wall and launch myself at the boy, jumping on to his shoulders with my knees. He is on the floor in a second and I manage to land on my feet.

I keep clear of him. He looks pretty mad.

I realize I have dropped my cigarette and move to pick it up but then, like in some kung fu movie, out of nowhere the karate teacher appears. This guy is short, probably in his fifties and not to be messed with. Unlike the kids in his class, he looks like he’s hit more than a few things that have hit him back.

However, he says to Black Belt Boy, “A deal’s a deal, Tom. He won. And you should have been faster.”

Joe sniggers.

Mr. Karate pulls Black Belt Boy to his feet and steers him away.

Casually as I can, I pick up my cigarette and drag on it.

Mr. Karate calls back to me, “Those things’ll kill you.”

Joe blows out a huge smoke ring, but it’s a strange shape because he can hardly stop grinning.

When the karate pair have disappeared, Joe asks, “You planning on living long enough to die of lung cancer?”

About a week after my expulsion Gran says that she is going to homeschool me. It sounds great. No school. No “conforming,” no “fitting in.”

She says, “It is school, but it’s at home.”

She gets Arran’s old books and pens and papers and we sit at the kitchen table. We work through some exercises, very slowly. I struggle to read the questions and Gran paces around the kitchen while I write out the alphabet for her. After she’s looked at what I’ve written, she puts all Arran’s books away.

In the afternoon we go for a walk in the woods, and we talk about the trees and plants and have a look at some lichen with a magnifying glass.

When Arran gets home Gran asks him to sit with me while I read. Arran is always patient, and I’m never ashamed when I’m with him, but it’s slow and exhausting. Gran stands and watches. Later she says, “Books will never work for you, Nathan. And I certainly haven’t the patience or ability to teach you to read. If you want to learn, Arran will have to try.”

“I’m not bothered.” Though I know Arran will insist I don’t give up.

“Fine by me. But you’ve got lots of other things to learn about.”

The next day Gran and I go on our first field trip to Wales. It is a two-hour journey by train. It’s cold and windy, though not actually raining. We walk in the hills, and I love seeing where the wild plants and animals live, how they grow, where they are at home.

On the first warm day in April we stay overnight, sleeping outside. I never want to sleep inside again. Gran teaches me about the stars and tells me how the moon’s cycle affects the plants that she collects.

Back at home, Gran teaches me about potions, but compared to her I’m clumsy and don’t have her intuition about how the plants will work together or counteract each other. Still, I learn the basics about how she makes her potions, how her touch and even her breath add magic to them. And I learn to make simple healing lotions for cuts, a paste that draws out poison, and a sleeping draught, but I know that I won’t ever make anything magical.

I have maps of Wales, and I get to know them well. I can read maps easily; they are pictures, and I can see the land in my head. I learn where all the rivers, valleys, and mountains are in relation to each other, the ways across them, the places I can find shelter or water, where I can swim, fish, and trap.

Soon I travel to Wales on my own, often spending two or three days away from home, sleeping outside and living off the land.

The first time I’m away by myself I lie on the ground. Lying on a Welsh mountain is special. I try to work it out: I am happy when I’m with Arran, just being with him, watching his slow and peaceful nature. That’s a special thing. And I’m happy with Annalise, really happy, looking at how beautiful she is and forgetting who I am for the time she’s with me. That’s pretty special too. But lying on a Welsh mountain is different. Better. That’s the real me. The real me and the real mountain, alive and breathing as one.

My twelfth birthday and another assessment comes round. I hate them, but I control myself, make myself put up with one day of the Council, the Councilors, the weighing and measuring, so that I can be free again. At the end of this assessment they question Gran about my education, though it is fairly obvious that they know I have been expelled from school. Gran tells them little and doesn’t mention the field trips. The assessment seems to go okay. My Designation Code is still Not ascertained.

A week later another notification arrives. We are sitting round the kitchen table and Gran reads it out.

“Notification of the Resolution of the Council of White Witches of England, Scotland, and Wales.

“In order to ensure the safety of all White Witches it was agreed that any and all movements of Half Codes (W 0.5/B 0.5) away from their recorded place of residence must be approved by the Council before journeys are undertaken. Any Half Code found in a place that has not been approved will have all movements restricted.”

“This is too much. He’s going to end up under house arrest,” Deborah says.

“Do you think they know that Nathan is going to Wales?” Arran looks worried.

“I don’t know. But, yes, we have to assume that they do. I thought they allowed it because . . .” Gran’s voice tails off to silence.

I know the rest of her thoughts. The Council may be using me to lure Marcus in, to tempt him to see me, and if he does appear they will swoop in and kill him . . . kill us. But now they seem to want to restrict me.

Deborah has obviously been thinking of Marcus too. She says, “It might be something to do with the family that Marcus attacked up in the northeast.”

We all look at her.

“You haven’t heard? They were all killed.”

“How do you know this?” Gran asks.

“I’ve been keeping my ear to the ground. We all have to, don’t we? For Nathan’s sake . . . and our own, for that matter.”