I’m not given a chance to reply, because Soul nods at the guards and they come up to me and take an arm each.

As I’m hauled out of the room and along the corridors I try to keep track of the directions—the lefts, the rights, the benches, windows, and doors—but it’s too complex and I’m soon in a part of the building where the corridors are less straight, and this one is descending until it becomes so narrow that one guard is in front of me and one behind. Stone steps take us farther down. It’s cold. There’s a row of metal doors on the left.

The guard ahead stops by the third door, which is painted blue, though the paint is scratched off in places to show gray beneath. It’s not a door to fill anyone with hope. He slides it open and the guard behind me pushes me through.

I’m standing in a cell. The only light is from the corridor. The cell is empty except for a chain attached to the wall, which the guard is now shackling to my ankle. Then he’s out of the door, turning the lock and slamming a bolt.

Complete blackness.

I’m still handcuffed. I step forward and make my way around the room, feeling the uneven stone walls with my toes, my body, and my cheek. Three paces to the left of where the chain is attached is the corner and then two paces farther I run out of chain. It’s the same on the right. The short chain stops me from getting near the door.

The floor is cold and hard but dry. I sit with my back against the wall. Four stone walls, one door, a length of chain and me.

But soon nausea and fear join us.

The moon is halfway through its cycle, so things are bad but not really bad. I’ve not been inside at night for a long time, though. I jiggle my feet. Then I jiggle my body. This helps the panicky feeling but not the nausea. I roll on to my side but keep jiggling and crawl into the corner and push my head into it. Some of the time I jiggle, some of the time I don’t.

I bring up watery vomit, but there’s not much of it. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but my stomach retches repeatedly. There’s nothing to come out, but it clenches and turns, and I’m coughing up nothing, but still my stomach wants to get rid of something.

Then the noises start. I hear hissing and banging, but I’m not sure if I’m imagining them or if they’re real noises. The hissing is horrible, persistent; the bangs make me jump, they’re so loud. I try to anticipate them but I can’t. All I can do to help is to shout. Shouting drowns out the noises, but I can’t keep it up all night. I’m sick again, and I lie with my head pressed into the corner, and I hum and jiggle and shout back at the noises from time to time when they make me jump.

It’s dawn. The cell is still dark, but the nausea and noises leave as quickly as they arrived.

No one comes.

I should make a plan but I’m too exhausted to think of one.

Still no one comes.

I try to rest. I’m hungry. My mouth tastes disgusting. Will they bring food and water? Or will they forget about me and leave me here to die?

They have remembered me. They have brought water but not remembered that I need to eat as well. They have forgotten my name too.

I can’t seem to remember it either.

“I’ll ask you once more to state your name.” The young witch has stopped saying please.

I’m going with my usual plan, the one where I say nothing. It’s not the most sophisticated plan; it’s bound to cause irritation, and it’s not likely to have a profound effect on anything that will ultimately happen. But at least it’s a plan.

I stare back at her, taking in her appearance from the top of her neatly brushed, mousy hair, past her small, pale blue eyes, perfectly applied mascara, smooth, thin coating of foundation, and precisely painted, pink lipstick. Her narrow frame is well dressed in a beige suit, tights, black patent shoes. She looks like she’s made an effort, and she looks like she’s had a decent night’s sleep. She is even wearing perfume, which is floral.

And the more I look, the more overcome I am by her appearance, her prettiness, and her basic, cruel stupidity. She is dressed for some business meeting, and I’ve been kept in a cell.

And I now have a new plan. I slouch on one hip and leaning forward slightly toward her I say, “My name is Ivan. Ivan Shukhov.”

The woman looks a little confused and irritated. She’s probably trying to work out if it’s some sort of rhyming slang.

“No, you are Nathan Byrn. Son of Cora Byrn and Marcus Edge.”

I lean back and try to sound casual. “Nah, I’m Ivan. You must be after the guy in the next cell.”

“There isn’t anyone in the next cell.”

“You mean he’s escaped?”

She pulls her lipsticked lips into a smile, perhaps to show she has a sense of humor.

“We just need to ensure that you are aware of what is happening.”

“Course I’m aware of what is happening.” That wasn’t at all casual, and I have to recover my tone. “I’ve been treated like a king by the wonderful Council of White Witches. Fed the best food, given the best bed and”—I lean forward again—“been introduced to the most charming, fresh- smelling White Witches.” The guard pulls me back by one arm. “My name is Ivan Shukhov, and I am aware of what is happening. Are you?”

“You are not Ivan Something-or-other. You are Nathan Byrn and you are going to be codified.”

“I’ve no idea what that means.”

Her eyes are cold, fixed on me, pale blue shimmers glacially in pale blue.

“It doesn’t sound too good,” I say. “I kind of feel sorry for this Nathan guy.”

“You are Nathan.”

“What does codified mean? I’d like to tell Nathan if I see him.”

“It’s a sophisticated tattoo.”

“I can’t imagine you think any tattoos are sophisticated.”

She smiles. “This one is. Mr. Wallend has been working on the potion for some time.”

“What is the tattoo?”

“It’s your code, of course.”

I lean forward and the guards grab my arms and hold them back. “A brand, you mean.”

She opens the pink lips on her beautifully made-up face to speak again and I spit at them. The gob lands perfectly.

She screams and splutters, rubbing at her mouth. The guards hold me back.

The woman has backed away a pace; her makeup is not so immaculate as she wipes it with her handkerchief. She holds the handkerchief to her mouth as she says, “You are Nathan Byrn. You have a mother who was a White Witch and a father who is a Black Witch. You are a Half Code and as such you are to be codified.”

This time my spit lands on the hem of her skirt. She staggers back as if I’ve hit her. The guards still keep hold of me.

“Take him to Room 2C.”

The guards shuffle through the cell door, dragging me out, and in the narrow corridor they have to go sideways, which is better for me as I can climb the walls with my legs, even though one guard has me by the neck. They get me in front of a green metal door with 2C painted on it. It slides open and I stop struggling for a second.

Room 2C contains what looks like an operating table with lots of black plastic straps. Again I start struggling and shouting.

In the end they have to knock me out with a punch to the side of my head.

I wake and begin to gag and choke. There’s something in my mouth. I can’t spit it out. It’s rubber and metal.

The woman is standing beside me, looking down at me. She smiles and says, “Ah, awake at last.”

I squirm and squeal, but it’s pathetic so I stop. Room 2C has painted white walls and the ceiling is bare except for a light and what looks like a camera nestled in the far corner. That’s all I know about Room 2C because I can’t move to see anything else. I’m lying down, my body strapped to a table. My hands are no longer handcuffed, but they are secured, and I can feel with my fingertips that the table has a thin layer of padding under a sheet. My head is strapped by my forehead and rests in a sort of hollow in the table. It feels like there are straps over my body, arms, legs, and ankles.