I’m alive, I think, staring up at the grey sky. My mouth tastes like dust and there’s something sharp lodged in my throat. I’m alive and it hurts. I curl to the side and begin to hack it out, like a cat with a fur ball.

When I’m done I lie on my side, breathing. I can see legs. I trace them up to a handful of Patchers, standing with their arms crossed, frowning.

‘Coulda been more than just her,’ one of them says, staring down at me. ‘Coulda come down on all of our heads.’

’S’what happens when you get amateurs in to secure the wall.’

A hand grips my jaw and physically turns my head. The male Peacer looms above me. His eyes are wide, skirting over my face. ‘Jesus fuck,’ he says.

‘What happened?’ I croak. The last thing I remember is the chemetal. Taking the safety gloves off and touching chemetal. Like an idiot.

‘The supports in the crack collapsed,’ the Peacer says, straightening up. ‘On you.’

I prop myself up on my elbows, grimacing. The Patchers have taken the opportunity for a smoke break, either sitting on the damp grass - it’s raining - or standing in clumps, talking. On my left, the two uniformed Peacers bracket an elderly man in a black suit. They are all looking at me.

I sit up fully, moving at a pace that isn’t going to make me sick, and become aware of a deep, stabbing pain in my left side. I twist my torso to confirm, and then spend a moment with my eyes squeezed shut, breathing through what feels like a bruised - not broken, come on, not broken - rib.

‘How the hell did I get out?’ I ask, then frown and spit out a mouthful of black saliva.

The crack in the wall has doubled in size and the route through to the other side is now blocked with jagged rubble. The surrounding grass has turned black with dust.

’Gat saw it coming down and dragged you out,’ one of the Patchers says, pointing to a man with a leathery face and dark eyes. There’s a small red gash across his forehead.

I squint and make out a trail where the dust is thinner, leading from the crack to where I’m sitting. ’Thanks,’ I say to Gat, swallowing. ‘I think you saved my—’

‘Can you get up?’ the female Peacer interrupts.

There goes that moment.

I try. I make it up to my knees before the pain in my ribs becomes too sharp for me to bear. ‘Shit, ow,’ I say, clutching my side.

The female Peacer sighs - as though I’m doing it on purpose - and turns to her colleague. ‘She can wait in the automobile.’

On one hand, I don’t want to go anywhere near the automobile. On the other, maybe my plan could still work? If they leave me in the automobile, I could sneak away when they start up work again.

‘You’ll have to wait with her,’ the male Peacer points out.

‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ I say. If there’s no sneaking away to be had, I’d rather lie on the ground then crammed in on that leather-smelling bench.

‘She can wait in the house if that is acceptable.’

All of us turn to stare at the newcomer, the elderly man wearing a suit. He looks like he doesn’t want to be here, in the rain with all of us, frowning as he wipes mud from his polished shoes onto the grass.

‘No,’ the female Peacer says. ‘We can’t have them in the house. The automobile’s fine.’

‘Really,’ the man says, without looking up. ‘We have a sick room for the staff. For a few hours, it wouldn’t be an issue.’ Clearly, this guy - a butler, I’ve decided - has never met people from Under before.

‘My rib really hurts,’ I say, trying to look as pitiable as possible. The rain helps. ‘I think it might be broken.’

The two Peacers trade an unreadable glance. The male one rubs at his forehead, closing his eyes as he thinks. In a sudden flash of empathy, I realise this day is probably not going well for him. ‘Fine,’ he says eventually. ‘Did you walk down here?’

‘Of course not,’ the butler frowns. ‘There is an automobile.’ He casts me a dubious look. ‘If she is able to walk?’

I nod, and grit my teeth. My rib screams as I lumber up to my feet and sway. I wait for the pain to fade, trying to breathe shallowly.

‘The rest of you, get going with the reassessment,’ the male Peacer calls to the Patchers.

‘Should we cover the tools?’ one of them asks.

The Peacer looks up at the sky. ‘It’s just a shower. Just cover the machines for now.’

Grumbling, the Patchers start putting out their pipes.

‘Come along then,’ the butler says to me. ’It’s a short walk.’ He doesn’t wait to see if I follow, turning to stride briskly towards the trees, side-stepping patches of mud.

I stagger towards him. Hurts, but I can.

‘Oi,’ the female Peacer barks as I reach the treeline. ‘Jack-short-for-Jacqueline. Don’t touch anything, don’t speak to anyone, don’t do anything. Someone will come to get you at the end of the day.’

I nod. My eyes slide over her shoulder. Jan is standing, motionless, near the crack. He meets my gaze, terrified.

If I thought I could get away with a smile, I would have beamed.

The butler has his own automobile, or something like it anyway. It moves like an automobile but is much smaller - just a driver’s seat and two passenger seats at the back - and open at the sides. I feel less sick in it, but the path back up to the house is far bumpier, and I have to bite my lip not to let out the gasps of pain as my rib gets mercilessly shaken.

When we reach the back of the manor, he parks the automobile off to the side and leads me in through a back door.

We enter into a narrow corridor with a low ceiling. It’s plain but well-kept, and smells floral and musky, like wood polish. A few dark coats are hung up on a rack to the side of the door. ‘Do not speak unless spoken to,’ the butler says, not bothering to glance back. His tone is bone-dry, stripped of any pretence of sympathy. I half-suspect he offered to take me just to avoid lingering in the rain.

I nod - pointlessly, since he’s not looking - and fix my gaze ahead as we round the corner, making a careful note of our route.

This corridor isn’t empty. Two maids in crisp black uniforms and white caps freeze mid-step, their eyes widening as they see me. The butler strides past without so much as a flicker of acknowledgment, and pushes open a wooden door on the left. ‘In here.’

I follow him in at a slower pace. The room is large, with stone flooring and white-washed walls, and smells strongly of antiseptic. A sink, a chair, and three small beds are lined up against the wall. The only other furniture is a large wooden medicine cabinet in the corner. There’s a window too, but it’s much too small to do anything with.

‘The staff sick room,’ the butler informs me. ‘You can recover in here. The staff doctor is not currently on site, or I suppose he could have seen you.’ He sniffs. ‘Would have given him something to do at least.’

‘Okay,’ I say, then tack on a belated, ‘Thank you.’

The butler frowns and then looks at my boots. ‘Try not to get mud everywhere. And do not, under any circumstances, leave this room.’

I nod.

‘You’re not bleeding are you?’

I look down at myself. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Alright. Well. If there is an emergency, you may ask for Thompson. Although only in the direst of circumstances, you understand me? Today is already chaotic enough as it is.’

I remember what Tom said. There’ll be an event here tonight, to unveil the biomech. ‘Is Mister…’ What do they call him? Doctor? Professor? ‘Is the owner at home?’ I try.

The butler’s wrinkled brow raises. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But you certainly won’t be seeing him.’

I nod again. I feel like that’s all I’ve been doing this whole conversation: bobbling my head.

‘And what is your name?’ the butler asks.

‘Jack,’ I say. ‘Short for Jaqueline.’

‘Jack,’ he echoes flatly. ‘Well then.’ He gives me a brief, insincere smile, and disappears back through the door. I listen out for a lock clicking. I don’t hear one.

Still holding my ribs, I hobble over to the edge of one of the beds and sit. The room is suddenly silent. I feel it pressing up against me like a weight. Then I hear a creak from the ceiling. Footsteps.

A smile tugs at my lips. Then, when that isn’t enough, I slam my palm on the bed and begin to chuckle.

My god, I think as tears of pain spring to my eyes. What are the fucking chances?

I force myself to wait for thirty minutes. That’s a guess - there’s no clock in the room and I’m not wearing a watch. Are they idiots? That’s all I can think. So far, Topsiders have been far more trusting than I expected. How are they the ones running everything?

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When I’ve judged it long enough, I strip off my overalls, mindful of the rib, and tuck them under the pillow on the bed. I’m left in the oversized black clothes I usually wear, not a uniform but nondescript enough that I hope I won’t stick out. I retie the pouch under my shirt and spend a minute or two at the mirror over the sink, trying to wipe away the smears of black dust on my cheeks and flakes of stone that have taken up residence in my hair. I don’t look well. There are purple circles under my eyes, and there’s no colour in my face at all.

Nothing I can do about that.

When I’m as presentable as I’m going to get, I hobble over to the door and pause. I can’t hear anything from outside, but even if I do bump into anyone, Thompson has given me a wonderful excuse. This room doesn’t have a bathroom.

Idiots, I think again as I turn the handle.

Back in the plain white corridor. We came from the right, so I turn left out the room, trying to walk as normally as I can.

When I get to the end of the corridor, I’m already sweating. In front of me is a large panelled door, the nicest thing I’ve seen so far. That, I’m willing to bet, is the door into the main part of the house. I hesitate, then pull it open.

I don’t make it more than a step inside before I come to a sudden stop, my mouth dropping open.

The room is tall and vast and glowing. White light pours in through the arched windows, glancing off a chessboard floor, the golden edges of painting frames, a chandelier, hanging from way up above. When I tilt my head up to follow the delicate line of its chain, my mouth falls open further. The domed ceiling is alive. Angels, demons, people - vast, beautiful landscapes, rendered in bright colours, down to the last exquisite detail. I linger on the contorted twist of a man with a lance sticking out of his chest, the panicked light in his eyes, the flash of blood around his mouth as he screams. It makes my own ribs hurt.

It’s incredible. I want to lie down on my back and stare at it. I want to take my time and look at each figure, one by one—

‘Foolish girl!’

My jaw snaps shut. The voice came from the other side of the staircase, accompanied by a quick tempo of clipped footsteps.

‘I told you, it’s blue. Blue! Do you know your colours yet?’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Don’t be sorry, be better! We don’t have time for this. Go and fetch the blue one! I’ll try to salvage it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

A short, slight man rounds the corner, dressed like Thompson, only wearing bright white gloves and frowning hard. He walks right past me, intent on the other side of the atrium, pulls a door open and stomps inside.

I wait with bated breath. No more footsteps. The echoes fade into quiet.

Well, it would seem whatever preparations are being done for the event tonight, it’s through that door. I follow after him, grinning. I don’t let myself look up again.

It takes me ten minutes to realise I’m way off. Either I misunderstood and he wasn’t heading to salvage something blue for the event, or I’ve managed to take a wrong turn, but the next corridor I walk down is dark and dim, and utterly silent. I chew my lip, picking up the pace. I don’t know how long it’s been since I left the sick room but it’s long enough that Thompson might have come back to check on me. Every minute that crawls by winds the ball of tension in my stomach tighter. I’ll turn back in thirty minutes, I decide, turning into the next corridor. Just in case.

Bang!

It’s nothing like a gunshot, far too faint, but I still scuttle back, heart exploding into action.

A long groan peters out from the door ahead of me on the right. Then I hear, quite distinctly, somebody say, ‘Fucking shit.’

I blink a few times. Check the door but there’s no strip of light shining out of the bottom. The room is dark.

Don’t do it, I tell myself. Don’t—

The door eases open silently. I was right, the room is dark and gloomy; the curtains at the other end have been drawn. It smells dusty and unused, and there’s a bunch of furniture half-hidden under ghostly white sheets. Statues too, I’m guessing, from the vague figure shapes. I hold my breath, waiting, but there’s no sound. Maybe it was the room opposite?

Clang! ‘Motherfucking piece of shit!’

I look immediately to the left hand corner, where a figure is chained to the wall. My sharp intake of breath is all it - he - needs to look up and meet my eyes.

Time slows. I don’t know if it’s fear, or panic, or dread, but the seconds unspool as me and this unknown man stare each other. I don’t know who is more surprised.

He’s as pale as the sheets surrounding us. Pale face, pale hair, pale eyes, which is a horrible canvas for the blood. His nose, mouth, chin, are all covered in it. His nice white dress shirt is ruined with dark red blotches. Strung up like he is, with his arms above his head, wrists looped by thick iron manacles, it looks like Bauman’s captured some wild, otherworldly creature in his house.

’Who on god’s green earth are you?’ he snaps, and the spell breaks.

I had thought, briefly, that he might be from Under - that they’d captured him and were torturing him for sport, like the rumours that went around in the Dorms. I’d thought about trying to help him. But that clipped accent - he’s from here, he’s from Top. This is clearly trouble. And I don’t want trouble - I want biomech.

I give him a brisk, awkward smile, and turn to go.

‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Wait, hold on. You— WAIT!’

That last wait is a touch too loud for my liking; if this man decides to scream, I realise, I’m probably fucked. I make a split second call, turn, and hobble over to him. ‘Where’s Bauman keeping the biomech?’ I ask, trying to sound assertive.

He blinks at me - there’s a nasty green bruise across his cheek - and recovers quickly. ’I’ll tell you if you get me out the manacles.’

I look at the manacles, then back at him. I don’t really want to do that. What if he’s dangerous? What if he’s a serial killer or something, and that’s why Bauman’s chained him up and beaten him?

‘Hello?’ he says, jostling his arms, setting the chains clinking. ‘Little girl, I appreciate this might come as a bit of a shock. I do. But you need to get me out of these, quickly. I’ve got money. And I can get you all the biomech you want, but we don’t have much time.’

‘Little girl,’ I repeat.

He seems to sense he’s made a mistake. ‘I don’t know, it’s fucking dark! Woman, whatever you are. I’ll pay you.’

I eye him. His face is earnest, but his eyes… I don’t trust his eyes. ‘Who are you?’ I ask.

‘Klaus. I’m a scientist.’

I’m not impressed. ‘Why would Bauman chain up a scientist in his house?’

Klaus looks incredulous ‘Is that really what you’re interested in?’

‘Right now, yeah.’

‘Because I invented something that he wants!’

‘Invented what?’

‘Are you se—’ He breaks off when he sees the look on my face. ‘I made something that can detect magic. He wants it so he can use it. I don’t want him to have it, because it would be genocide. There. As you can see, I’m actually the morally intact one in this situation, and yet—‘

Our eyes meet as his mouth snaps shut.

There are footsteps outside the door, growing louder.

Klaus’s face coils into an angry sneer. ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘And that would be them. Tell you what, you can ask the man himself about his biomech. How’s that?’

I whirl around to scan the room. There’s no time to run, the best I can do is hide.

The footsteps reach the door. I lunge towards a sheet-covered table, far away from both Klaus and the door, and crouch down.

I’m just in time. The door flies open with a bang. A sharp click follows, and the room is suddenly awash with bright yellow light. I peer around the table. Two men have entered the room, both tall, trim, and middle aged, with short beards. One wears a tweed jacket with a purple scarf. The other is dressed all in black.

My mouth is dry but I don’t dare swallow. I don’t dare to even breathe. If Klaus the scientist tells them I’m here, I’m going to die.

‘Yes,’ the one in black says, carrying on his conversation as though Klaus isn’t chained to wall, squinting at him. ‘Well, he is the King.’

‘I’m all too aware,’ the one in the tweed jacket drawls. ‘And public perception is important, nobody’s denying that. But it’s the principle of it. I don’t much care for threats.’

‘Bauman,’ the man in black rumbles chidingly. ‘He probably didn’t view it as a threat.’

Bauman just laughs. ‘Oh, he most certainly did. I’ll give it to him - thick as mud between the ears, but when it comes to playing politico, he’s the best of them all.’

They share a smile, and finally turn to face Klaus, who has sagged back into the wall with a look of boredom. His hands give it away though - they’re fisted so tight his arms are trembling.

‘Well, Klaus,’ Bauman says. ‘What would you do in my situation?’

‘I’d probably go fuck myself,’ Klaus smiles back.

Bauman tuts. ‘Still full of energy, I see.’

‘There’s really not much to do here. I’ve been saving it up.’

The man in black looks like he’s trying to hide his smile.

Bauman puts his hands on his hips, and appraises Klaus with a sigh. ‘This is really very unpleasant. Needlessly unpleasant. I honestly don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours.’

‘I’m thinking about what my mother will say when I tell her exactly how hospitable you’ve been, and what sort of expression you’re going to have when you’re stood in front of the firing squad.’

Even I am impressed by the level of vitriol in his voice.

Bauman steps forward and slaps him hard across the cheek.

Klaus doesn’t even hesitate: he turns back and spits a wad of red right in his face.

My eyebrows lift. Mr. Scientist has balls.

Bauman’s chest rises and falls in a controlled breath. With brisk, graceful movements, he reaches into the pocket of his tweed jacket and withdraws a folded white square. He makes a show of cleaning up his face, and then his hand, the one he used to hit Klaus with.

‘I wouldn’t antagonise him further,’ the man in black says to Klaus. ‘Just tell us where you’ve put it. Then we can all go home and- and cease this idiocy.’

Klaus glares silently.

Bauman sighs. ‘Laufeys. All so proud.’ He takes something else out of his pocket, some small, thumb-sized object. It flashes gold in the light, although I can’t see what it is.

‘Klaus,’ the man in black says. He sounds sad. ‘You’re running out of options here. Come on, you’re better than this.’

‘Oh no,’ Bauman interrupts. ‘There are no more options. The boy will not tell us, he’s made that perfectly clear. He—‘

‘That’s biomech isn’t it?’ Klaus says. He’s not looking at the little gold object though. He’s looking at me.

I duck back down, heart hammering. Don’t look over here! I want to scream at him, and in fact I’m so caught up in the panic of it that I miss whatever he says next.

‘Then you know exactly what it does,’ Bauman is saying when I tune back in. ‘Seeks and attaches to nerve cells. Very useful for prosthetics. It can also be very useful to transmit pain.’

‘Klaus,’ the man in black begins warningly, but Bauman holds up a hand to him.

‘You are dangerous,’ Bauman says, voice never dropping below pleasant. ‘And manipulative. And you have ruined yourself quite excellently.’

Klaus laughs, displaying red teeth. ‘If I’ve ruined myself then what’s left to lose?’

Bauman smiles. It’s not a nice smile - in fact, I would say it’s one of the most terrifying expressions I’ve ever seen. ‘This,’ he says, holding up the little golden object. ‘Is used to help the gunners who are hard of hearing. Can you guess where it goes?’

Any remaining colour drains from Klaus’s face, although his glare never wavers.

‘Tell me where you’ve hidden the Edelweiss,’ Bauman says.

Klaus says nothing. He’s staring at me again, chest rising and falling as he fights to keep his breathing steady.

Bauman’s hand inches closer to his head. ‘No? We’ll find it, you know. You’ll tell us. It’s just a matter of how much you’re going to hurt before you do.’

Klaus stares and stares. Bauman’s fingers are touching his right ear before he suddenly calls out, ‘You can’t just yank it out, can you? You have to turn it off first.’

Bauman’s bushy eyebrows raise. ‘Yes, I am well aware of how my own design operates.’ Then he inserts it into Klaus’s ear.

The effect isn’t immediate. A second goes by, then another. Then Klaus screams. It’s a terrible howl. An inhuman howl. I duck back behind the table, compulsively swallowing, and jam my fingers into my ears.

He can’t survive this, I think, eyes wide. Already his voice is shredding.

Then the noise cuts off, goes garbled.

My fingers fall, and, tentatively, I peek out again. Klaus is still screaming - moaning, really. It’s just that Bauman has stuffed his handkerchief in his mouth.

‘I think that’s enough,’ the man in black says, clearly uncomfortable.

‘Let’s give it another minute, shall we? I haven’t actually seen this in practise before.’ Bauman sounds calm, collected. Like he’s listening to music, not to a man shake and writhe and scream.

My legs are trembling. I am terrified. Beyond terrified. I thought they’d just shoot me. I didn’t realise there would be torture.

Leave, I think. Please, just leave.

Klaus doesn’t even last another minute. Twenty seconds later, the muffled moaning comes to a sudden, sickening stop. From my crouch around the back of the table, I hear the clang of the chains moving.

‘Is he dead?’ the man in black says into the sudden silence.

’Not yet.’ Bauman sounds thoughtful. ‘Look, you can see him breathing. Merely passed out.’

’Should we… should I take it out?’

‘No. You said it yourself, he’s a Laufey. If he goes back home and tells mother dearest, there will be trouble indeed. No, it’s far simpler just to leave him here. Another thirty minutes and there won’t be much of his mind left.’

‘And the Edelweiss?’

‘We found his notes. I’ve given them to Red. She’s said it might take her a while - the damn things are written in code - but she’s confident she’ll be able to crack it within the month.’ Another sigh. ‘Stubborn boy. Really, it’s a shame. He was bright. Arrogant, but bright.’

A pause, the shifting of fabric. ‘It’s almost two,’ the man in black says eventually. ‘The director—‘

‘Ah yes, that farce.’ Bauman sighs. ‘Come on then. Let’s get it over with.’

I wait, hardly daring to hope, as footsteps sound out on the hardwood.

The room is suddenly plunged into darkness and my vision cuts out, unadjusted after such bright light. The footsteps fade, and the door clicks softly shut.

We’re alone.