Page 63 of The Bone Season

Hello, Paige.

I asked him where I was.

You’re in hospital, he said.You had an accident.

Are you a doctor?

I am, but I don’t work at this hospital. I’m just here until your parents arrive. Can you tell me who they are?

I’ve just one, I told him.

Nicklas Nygård, a transfer from Stockholm, had saved my life that day. He had weighed the risks of taking me to a Scion hospital, invented a story to explain the wounds, bribed a nurse, and watched over me as my clairvoyance awakened.

Later, I learned that Nick had accepted a position at the same research facility where my father worked. During his probation, he had been working virtually, to adjust to life in England before he put his nose to the grindstone. I never did find out why he was in that poppy field.

When my father had arrived to pick me up, Nick had seen me to the door. I remembered him kneeling in front of me, taking my hands.

Paige, listen to me. This is important.He had spoken in a low voice, his face grave.I’ve told your father you were attacked by a dog.

But it was a lady.

That lady was invisible, sötnos. Some grown-ups – most – don’t know about invisible things.

But you do,I said, confident in his wisdom.

I do. But I don’t want other grown-ups to laugh at me, so I keep it secret. He looked me in the eyes.You must never tell anyone about her, Paige. Promise me.

I still had scars from the attack, clustered on my left palm – a collection of short grey cuts, colder than the rest of me. I hid them with a glovelette in the citadel.

I had made good on my promise. For seven years, I held the secret close. All that time, I wondered where the days had taken Nick, and if he ever thought of that little Irish girl from the poppy field in Arthyen.

After those seven years, my patience was rewarded. Nick found me again.

If only he could find me now.

I drifted in and out of the memory. Perhaps Warden was right, and all the flux was giving me hallucinations. As the hours ticked away, I listened for a footstep, or the echoing melody of the gramophone. All I could hear was the same thick silence.

At some point, I must have fallen asleep. Fever still burned through me, and I wrenched awake every so often, my vision bursting with pictures of the past, my shoulder ablaze under the dressing.

A knock on the door woke me. I opened my eyes to pitch darkness, disoriented. A moment later, the lock clunked, and a candle appeared. When I saw Warden, I backed into the headboard.

‘I’ll thank you towaitafter you knock,’ I snapped.

‘I did.’ He placed a pressed uniform at the end of the bed. ‘The night bell will ring erelong. Get dressed and join me downstairs.’

Before I could fume at him, he was gone.

There was nothing else for it. Braced against the chill, I pushed the sheets off and sat up, not quite sure if I had slept or not.

With a shudder, I peeled the dressing off my shoulder. The wound was damp, so raw that even the air felt like steel wool on it.

I washed as best I could. Once I had patted my shoulder dry and dabbed it with salve, I covered it with a new dressing. Next came the clean uniform. I fastened the gilet and tied my bootlaces.

My leg, at least, felt stronger. I managed the stairs with relative ease.

Warden was in his parlour, leafing through a novel.I recognised it – Jaxon had a third edition at the den.Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheusby Mary Shelley was banned in Scion.

‘I presume you are ready,’ Warden said, seeing me.

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