“What Gift did she have?”

“Potion-making.”

I nod. “Can Marcus do your thing . . . your Gift . . . with the noise?”

“Is it on the list?”

“You should watch out. I’d bet he’d like it to be.”

We are silent again.

I had sort of guessed that Celia had an issue with me, or rather with me being the son of you-know-who. It wasn’t a wild guess. Let’s face it, she was bound to know or be related to someone on the list.

I say, “I’m not Marcus.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t kill your sister.”

“It’s unfair, isn’t it? But I think that there is a chance, admittedly a small one, that he does care about you and that it irks him that his son is here.”

“Does he know I’m here?”

“No, I don’t mean here. This place is well hidden, even from his abilities.” She stretches her neck and arms. “I mean that he will know that we have you. And will assume you aren’t in any state of luxury. I’d hate to disappoint on that level.”

“Why not leave me in the cage all day, then? You can’t seriously think I’d ever be able to kill him? This training is stupid.”

She gets up and walks around the room. This is usually a sign that she doesn’t want to answer the question.

“Perhaps, but leaving you in a cage all day would be cruel.”

I’m so amazed that I don’t start laughing for a second or two. When I’ve managed to calm myself I say, “You beat me. I wear a choker that can kill me. You shackle me up at night in a cage.”

“You’re well fed. You’re sitting here drawing.”

“And I’m supposed to be grateful?”

“No. You’re supposed to sit there with a full stomach and draw.”

“I’ve finished it,” I say and push it across to her.

She picks the paper up and turns it round to study it. After a minute she rolls it up and puts it onto the fire.

I pick up the pencil again and begin another. This time I draw myself, my face as I saw it in the mirror but even older, how I imagine Marcus looks. I can tell Celia is watching closely. She is hardly breathing. I’ve never done this before. I do the depths of his eyes like mine, exactly like mine. I can’t imagine them blacker.

When I’m finished I’m not that pleased. He looks too handsome, too nice. “Burn it,” I say. “It’s not right.”

Celia reaches over to take it and studies it longer than she studied her own portrait. Then she takes it out of the room.

“It doesn’t mean he looks like that,” I call after her.

She doesn’t reply.

I pack up the pencils, eraser, and sharpener in the old tin. The lid pushes on and that’s that. Celia comes back to sit opposite me again.

“Has anyone ever come close to catching him?” I ask.

“Who knows how close they get? No one succeeds. He’s very good. Very careful.”

“Do you think they will get him one day?”

“He’ll make a mistake—it only takes one—and he’ll get caught or killed.”

“Are they using me as bait to get him?”

She sounds pleased as she says, “I should imagine they are.”

“But you don’t know how? In what way, I mean?”

“My job is to act as your guardian and teacher. That’s all.”

“Until when?”

“Until they tell me to stop.”

“What will happen to me if they catch him?”

She sticks her lower lip out. It’s huge and flat. Slowly she draws it back in, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Will they kill me?”

The lip goes out again but comes in quickly this time and she says, “Maybe.”

“Even though I’ve done nothing wrong.”

She shrugs.

“Better safe than sorry, hey?”

She doesn’t respond.

“What would you do if they told you to kill me? If they said, ‘Put a bullet in the Half Code’s brain.’” I mime a gun, pointing a finger to the side of my head, and make a shooting sound.

She gets up and walks around behind me, pushes a finger hard against the back of my skull, and makes the same sound.

I don’t sleep well. It’s not cold. There’s no wind, not a breath. The clouds are still. There’s no rain.

I’m nervous about seeing the Council. My hands are shaky. Nerves, just nerves.

I can still feel Celia’s finger on the back of my skull. I know they can kill me at any time. Who would do it and how is irrelevant; the end result is the same. But still the thought of it being Celia has got to me. I know she’d do it. She’d have to, or someone would do it to her.

The trick is to enjoy it. How do you enjoy that?

You have to find a way.

Celia has told me that Annalise is unharmed, as are Deborah, Arran, and Gran, but the implication is that that may change at any time. When I’m dead they will be safe.

That’s the upside.

I can enjoy thinking they are all alive and well and safe.

Annalise is in the woods, running around, smiling, laughing, climbing the sandstone cliff. I want to see her and touch her skin again; I want her to kiss my fingers, my face, my body. And I know it will never happen, and instead she will be with some shithead White Witch who has his paws all over her. Enjoy that!

Deborah will marry a nice guy, have kids, and be happy. I can imagine that. That’s true. She’ll have three or four kids and she’ll be a great mum and they’ll all be happy. Gran will live peacefully in her house drinking tea and feeding the chickens.

They are good thoughts. And then I remember Gran and Deborah crying on the landing. But their tears dried then and they’d dry again—maybe they already have. Maybe they think I’m dead already.

I don’t think Arran will believe I’m dead. I remember him sweeping my hair back and saying, “I couldn’t stand it.” His foot is sticking out of the bed and my fingertips are kissing his forehead, and I am crying.

It’s my sixteenth birthday. I’ve been weighed and measured by Celia. She’s shaved my head and removed my piercings.

It’s midmorning and I’m back in the cage, shackled up. I guess Celia thinks it makes her look conscientious.

A jeep appears on the track. In the stillness, it seems grotesquely loud. And it just keeps getting louder. Eventually it stops and they get out.

The Council Leader hasn’t bothered to come, and neither has the other woman. But Annalise’s uncle, Soul O’Brien, is here, and with him are two other men. A dark-haired youngish man, dressed in new walking boots, jeans, and a pristine, waxed jacket. He’s so pale he looks like he’s not been outside for years. In contrast the other man looks like he’s spent his life outdoors. His blond hair is mixed with gray. He is tall, muscular, and dressed in black, which gives me a clue to what he is. But it’s easy to tell them. They have a way of looking down at everyone else, even the Councilors.

Celia goes to meet them. I wonder if she will salute or shake hands. Neither.

They come over to look at me. Caged up. The Hunter has pale blue eyes that are hardly blue at all they have so much silver in them.

They all look at me, then they all turn their backs on me and look at the scenery, and then they all go inside.

It’s the usual routine for assessments after that. I’m left to wait.

Eventually Celia comes to get me. She doesn’t say anything, just unlocks the cage and leads the way to the cottage. She stops by the front door. As I walk past her and go inside I wonder if she’ll say good luck, but she’s not that nervous.

The three visitors are sitting at the kitchen table. I’m standing, of course. Outside, Celia passes the window, pacing.

Annalise’s uncle asks all the questions and makes notes. The same sort of questions that Celia has asked me every month. He squirms when I try to read, but mostly his expression is one of boredom. He never hurries, and we eventually work through all the mental tests.

He says, “That’s all my questions.”

He’s not talking to me but to the Hunter. The Hunter’s not spoken yet. Not to me, nor to them.