“What are they?”

“The first is the Fairborn.”

“And?”

“The other weapon is—”

But then I don’t want to hear it. I know what she is going to say, and there is a sound in my head like thunder and animal growling and I want it to stay, grow louder, because this message is not the message I have been waiting for. It has to be wrong. Mary is saying it, but maybe I haven’t heard it right with this noise in my skull. And if the noise carries on I won’t have—

“Nathan! Are you listening?”

I shake my head. “I won’t kill him.”

“That is why you must leave. If you stay any longer with White Witches, the Council will make you do it. You are the second weapon.”

It’s just one possible future.

That’s the mantra I repeat to myself. There are millions, billions, of possible futures.

And I won’t kill him. I know that. He’s my father.

I won’t kill him.

And I want to see him. I want to tell him. But he believes the vision. He won’t want to see me. Ever.

And if I try to see him he’ll think I want to kill him. He’ll kill me.

Mary has given me the address of Bob, her friend who will help me find Mercury. She says that I should leave immediately and I tell her that I will, though I’m just saying words. I don’t know what I will do.

I head home.

I want to talk to Gran. I need to ask her about Marcus. She has to tell me something. And Arran’s Giving is now only a day away. I want to be with him for that and then I’ll leave.

I arrive in the evening. It’s still light. Gran is in the kitchen making a cake for after the Giving ceremony. She doesn’t ask about Mary’s party.

I don’t say “hello” or “missed you” or “how’s the cake coming on?” I say, “How many times have you met Marcus?”

She stops what she’s doing and glances at the kitchen door saying, “Jessica’s come home for Arran’s Giving.”

I move close to Gran and say quietly, “He’s my father. I want to know about him.”

Gran shakes her head. She tries to persuade me that she’ll tell me tomorrow but I threaten to shout for Jessica to come and hear the story too. Even though Gran must know I’d never do that, she slumps down in the chair and, in a voice that’s only a murmur, she tells me all she knows about Marcus and my mother.

In our bedroom I open the window. It’s dark now and a thin sliver of moon is rising. Arran gets out of bed and hugs me. I hug him back for a long time. Then we sit on the floor by the window.

Arran asks, “How was the birthday party?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Can you tell me anything?”

“You tell me about tomorrow. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. A bit nervous. I hope I don’t mess it up.”

“You won’t.”

“Jessica’s come back for the ceremony.”

“Gran told me.”

“Will you come?”

I can’t even shake my head.

He says, “It’s okay.”

“I wanted to.”

“I’d rather you were here now. This is better.”

Arran and I talk for a bit, reminiscing about the films that we watched together, and eventually talking more about his Giving. I say I think his Gift will be healing, like our mother’s. She had a strong Gift, and she was exceptionally kind and gentle; Gran has told me that. I think Arran will be like her. He thinks it will be a weak Gift, whatever it is, but he doesn’t mind, and I know he’s being honest.

Much later he goes to bed and I draw a picture for him. It’s of him and me playing in the woods.

I sit on the floor through most of the night, my head by the open window, watching Arran sleep. I know that I can’t stay for the Giving, not if Jessica will be there. And I can’t tell Arran where I’m going. I can’t even tell him good-bye.

I’m still trying to make sense of my mother and father’s relationship, and why Gran hid it from me, but in the end it’s easier not to think about it at all.

It’s still dark when I leave. Arran is sprawled across his bed, one foot over the side. I kiss my fingertips and touch them to his forehead, put the picture on his pillow, and scoop up my rucksack.

In the hall I switch on the table lamp and pick up the photo of my mother. She looks different to me now. Perhaps her husband loved her—he looks happy enough—but she looks sad, trying to smile but squinting instead.

I put the photo down and walk quickly through the kitchen.

As soon as I’m outside I feel the relief of fresh air. I take a step, two at most, before I hear the hiss of mobile phones rushing at me. Two black figures appear and their hands are on my arms and shoulders, turning me and slamming me into the house wall. I struggle and am pulled away from the wall and slammed into it again. My wrists are cuffed behind my back and I am pulled away from the wall and slammed into it again.

I’m back in the assessment room. My restraints had been removed after the journey down, which was in the back of a car with a Hunter either side of me. I gathered from their conversation that Gran was in another car that was following behind.

I think about Arran’s Giving ceremony. Gran will not be there, and I realize Jessica came back not to attend the ceremony but to conduct it. The Council will have given her the blood. Arran will hate it. And that’s all part of it too. They love to twist the knife.

I stand before the three Council members. The Council Leader speaks first. “You have been brought here today to answer some serious questions.”

I make an effort to look wide-eyed and innocent.

The woman to the right of the Council Leader gets up from her chair and slowly walks around the table to stand in front of me. She’s shorter than I expected. She’s not in the white robe that Council members normally wear for my assessments; she’s wearing a gray pinstriped suit with a white blouse underneath. Her high heels click sharply on the stone floor.

“Pull up your sleeve.”

I’m wearing a shirt over a T-shirt, and the cuffs are undone as the buttons have been lost long ago. I raise the arm of my left sleeve.

“And the other one,” the woman says. Now that she is close to me I can see that her eyes are dark brown, as dark as her skin, but they contain silver shards that spiral slowly, almost fading and then reappearing brightly.

“Let me see your arm,” she insists.

I do as she says. The inside of my arm is marked by a series of faint thin scars, twenty-eight of them, one for each day that I had tested my healing ability.

The woman takes my wrist between her forefinger and thumb, gripping hard and raising my arm so that it’s directly in front of her eyes. She holds it there and I can feel her breath on my skin, then she lets me go and walks back to her seat. She says, “Show your arm to the other Council members.”

I step forward and hold my arm out over the table.

Annalise’s uncle, Soul O’Brien, hardly gives it a glance. His hair is slicked back in a yellow-white sheen. He bends to the Council Leader’s ear and whispers.

I wonder if they know about the scars on my back. Probably. Kieran would have bragged about what he’d done.

“Step back from the table now,” Soul says.

I do as I’m told.

“Can you heal cuts?” he asks.

Denial seems ridiculous but I never want to admit to anything here.

He repeats his question and I stand silently.

“You must answer our questions.”

“Why?”

“Because we are the Council of White Witches.”

I stare at him.

“Can you heal cuts?”

I carry on with the staring.

“Where have you been for the last two days?”

I don’t take my eyes off him but I answer this one. “I was in the woods near our house. I camped out for the night.”

“It is a serious offence to lie to the Council.”