Page 166 of A Heart of Bluestone

I say nothing.

Mr Younge isn’t subtle about his insinuation, that I lied on the phone to Father when he asked if was hurt. I am hurt. And technically, I didn’t manage a word, so I didn’t really lie.

I did mislead.

I don’t regret it. Because now, Mr Younge takes me away from this hell.

Like his journey here, it’s a long one back. The gondolas run for us, take us down to VeVille where there’s a twenty-minute walk to the veil.

The security guard, the one who’s always fucking here, the one who’s stopped me from running off a handful of times before, traces me with narrowed eyes. Suspicion.

I keep my cheek to him and follow Mr Younge through the veil. He doesn’t speak when the warped, shadowy panel of timeand space leads us out into a crooked lane tucked in the heart of Edinburgh. Doesn’t mutter a word as he leads the way through more and more winding streets to the London veil, and then another from London to Stonehenge where the car is parked up the hill.

It is well into the afternoon by the time the car’s tyres are slowing down and, in the back seat, I push up from my sleep.

I turn my tired eyes out the window.

The breath that slumps me is a sudden release of tension in my chest.

Mother and Father stand in the doorway.

And just the sight of them has me weeping all over again.

What’s that saying the krums use?

There’s no place like home.

end

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