father gets up, collecting the used plates, and Harm replies, ‘Now isn’t a good time.’
Vesper’s face darkens. ‘It’s never a good time.’
‘I know it feels that way.’
‘I’m not a child any more.’ Her father looks round at that, an eyebrow raised. ‘I’m not! I know something is going on! And I want to help.’
She feels the weight of their attention, hesitates. ‘A man from the Lenses spoke to me today. He said things are getting bad. He said they need you to be a hero again, like you used to be, and this time I want to come with you.’ Her father shakes his head and she falters. When she finds her voice again it is small. ‘You’re going to leave me behind.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Harm soothes. ‘We’re not leaving you behind. We’re not going anywhere. Everything’s fine.’
‘That’s not what the man said.’
Harm nods sadly. ‘Things out there are never fine. Even before the Breach there were wars and plagues and floods, and goodness knows what else. We can’t look after the world.’ He glances at her father. ‘We’ve learnt that the hard way. But we can look after each other.’
‘He said father had to do it. He said there isn’t anyone else that can bear Gamma’s sword.’
‘That sword can speak for itself. If it wanted to be used again, we’d know about it by now.’
‘But it does!’
‘I doubt that.’
‘I’ve heard it and so has he.’
‘That’s enough,’ warns Harm.
She looks at her father for confirmation but sees only his back as he does the dishes. A frown of her own appears, a tiny mirror of her father’s. Tears of frustration build, and the discussion ends, abrupt, unsatisfactory, with no mention of Genner or the threat to the Shining City.
The frown stays with her for the rest of the day, a constant companion.
Vesper snaps awake, heart pounding. She sits up, peering into the comfortable dark of her room. She is alone. This surprises her. She was sure of the opposite. Bare feet slip onto cold floor and she pads to the window. Outside, the only lights are distant, unable to penetrate the moat of darkness at the base of the hill.
The house seems quiet. Vesper waits for her pulse to settle and listens. She begins to detect the soft murmur of Uncle Harm’s voice and beneath it … something else. She frowns, unable to place the sound. It is a kind of humming, more felt than heard. It stirs the blood. She remembers the sound from earlier in the day, and her father’s fear.
When it comes to sneaking through the house, Vesper knows all of the tricks. Squeaky boards are avoided, obstacles skillfully stepped around or over. Her door is opened just enough, so slow as to be silent. Soon she creeps past her parents’ room.
‘Ssh,’ says her uncle.
Vesper freezes, panic gripped until she realises that the voice is not directed at her.
‘It was just a dream. I’m right here. Vesper’s asleep next door. We’re all okay … Ssh … Go back to sleep.’
Against all reason, Vesper risks a glance inside. Uncle Harm lies beside her father, propped up on an elbow, stroking his brow. Her father’s eyes are closed and Vesper relaxes a little.
As her father drifts back into sleep, tension falls away, making him appear suddenly younger. Not young, Vesper decides, but not as old as he looks in the day.
She doesn’t stop to wonder if her uncle is lying or simply unaware, and moves quickly downstairs, determined to do something to help.
Since her previous visit to the storeroom, boxes have been stacked in front of the door, blocking it. Young arms struggle with the weight and she is forced to place them heavily. She winces as each one clunks against the floor, waiting for the tell-tale sounds of her father or uncle being disturbed.
But upstairs, all is quiet.
Sweating, she removes the last obstacle and goes inside. The room is small, more a glorified cupboard than living space. Junk is stacked messily on top of boxes. Vesper begins to pull things down. She is often distracted. An old rubber lung catches her eye. She squeezes it and it sighs for her. The sound is comforting. She sniffs it, enjoying the faint tang. There are other things, half-finished carvings that her father has abandoned. One is of a smiling knight with bulging muscles. Most are of a woman, vague shapes never fully realised.
When she lifts the first box clear the humming gets fractionally louder.
Excitement and youth make quick work of the pile. Boxes are dumped behind her, scattering across the kitchen floor, haphazard. Without them, the storeroom looks spacious.
Vesper frowns, listens again. She searches the corners, now accessible, finding only dust-heavy webs, long vacated.
Nothing. The storeroom is empty.
As quickly as it came, excitement vanishes. Vesper hangs her head. But humming persists, not imagined, invisible. She feels it through her feet. With a vengeance, excitement returns. Vesper presses her cheek flat on the floor and sees a board not quite aligned with the others. Fingers work the edge, teasing it up until purchase can be found. She lifts the board and sees space underneath. She lifts two more, revealing a shallow hole lined in trembling plastic. She dares to touch it, feels the humming through her fingers.
More carefully now, reverent, she pulls it back to reveal a long dusty box and a pair of old boots. The boots release a heady musk, mixing damp, old sweat, and other less savoury things. Vesper pulls them on anyway. She tries walking in them, imagining herself as a mysterious traveller. But boots soon fall from little feet, one thump, then another. They remain upright, stiff from experience.
The box is heavy and Vesper struggles to lift it out. Twice it slips out of her fingers, sliding back into the hole at an angle. She does not try a third time, instead leaning into the hole and flipping the catch. The lid creaks as it opens, protesting. A cloud of dust puffs out, demanding its tribute of coughs. Vesper obliges, once, twice, thrice.
An old coat has been used to pack the box. Vesper takes it out. The fabric is worn but tough, reassuring. The coat has been stitched together in places. Lower down, scorch marks and bite marks decorate, left by tainted dogs and unearthly fires. She puts the coat on. It is too big for her, almost a robe. The reality of how she looks in it makes no impact on Vesper’s imagination and she keeps it on, grinning.
Only then does she look down.
The humming has quietened, softening into contentment. At the bottom of the box lies a sword. Sheathed. Silvered wings wrapping the hilt unfurl, reach up to her. Open, they reveal an eye set in the crosspiece, staring, waiting.
One Thousand, One Hundred and Thirty-Seven Years Ago
In a storm of purple lighting where clouds look like egg sacs and the sky like a cavernous throat, a baby is born. Only the baby can see the storm,
