I turn away, seething. What is happening to my family? First my dad, now Marquis.
‘Prime Minister Wyvernmire and Queen Ignacia will win this war,’ I say. ‘And the rebels – our parents – will pay for it with their lives.’
‘Not if we earn them a fresh start,’ Marquis says quietly. ‘That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? We do the job, give the government what they want and go home.’
Home. Marquis is right. The faster I do the job, the faster I’ll return to a normal life, a life where my parents aren’t rebels. I imagine myself back in my bedroom, being awoken by Ursa jumping on the bed. I let my mind wander through Fitzrovia, across the square beneath my window, overflowing with its colourful mix of artists and immigrants and intellectuals. I sit in the university library full of books, study on the lawn with Marquis, climb the steps to the Bank of London and ask to talk with Sheba …
Marquis shakes me awake. ‘We’re here.’
The train has come to a stop in the pale afternoon light. I rub the sleep from my eyes and peer out of the window. The platform is tiny, built in the shadow of a single broad oak tree with a ticket office the size of a telephone box. The sign reads
BletchleyRailwayStation.
‘Bletchley?’ I say.
Marquis shrugs. ‘Never heard of it.’
A Guardian is waiting on the platform, holding his helmet under his arm. I’ve never seen one without a helmet before.I follow Marquis off the train.
‘Vivien and Marquis Featherswallow?’ the man says. His accent is Irish and strangely comforting.
‘Yes,’ we both reply together.
‘Grand. I’m Guardian 601. Real name Owen.’
I’ve never known a Guardian’s name before.
He gestures towards the road and my heart sinks at the sight of yet another sleek Guardian motorcar.
‘Weren’t sure what time you’d be here,’ Owen says, climbing into the driver’s seat. ‘You lot have been arriving non-stop since dawn. Government’s stepping it up a notch now the war’s started.’
With that, he falls quiet, and an awkward silence creeps over the car. We drive through a plain town with brick buildings and a deserted playing field. A line of people are gathered outside a greengrocer’s and a woman is pushing a pram past a blackened shop that was likely to have been destroyed during the Great War and never rebuilt. This must be a Third Class quarter.
The roads give way to tree-lined lanes, and a lake appears, dark blue beneath the low sun. Beyond it are more trees and a field and, behind that, a manor house. It’s built of red brick with tall iron entrance gates that open mechanically. Behind them, a small army of Guardians of Peace parts to let the motorcar through.
‘Quite the welcome party you’ve got,’ Owen says quietly and I wonder what he’s been told about us.
The motorcar comes to a stop in the manor’s white gravel courtyard. I lean over Marquis to stare up at the building. It’sgrand, that’s for certain, but there is something hotchpotch about it, with its cathedral-style porches and Gothic stone lions standing alongside glass sunrooms and suburban bay windows. Its different architectural styles rage against each other – Mama would call it vulgar. But, basked in the soft sunlight, it looks reassuringly unpretentious.
I step out of the car. Owen leads the way up the steps and into an entrance hall with a domed roof. Two oak staircases run up either side of the room and on to a wide raised landing above.
‘You’re expected in the West Wing,’ Owen says, leading us down a corridor on the left.
We stop in front of a closed door and Owen raps loudly. There’s a shuffling noise and then the door creaks open to reveal a large man in a deep purple suit. His eyes bulge as he looks at us and he lifts a pudgy hand to stroke his short beard.
‘Ah, Vivien and Marquis,’ he says. ‘We were waiting.’
I recognise his voice from the radio, too. This man is Deputy Prime Minister Ravensloe. We walk into what looks like an unused university seminar room, everything in it covered in a thick layer of dust and gloom. Blackout curtains have been drawn across the windows and the white daylight presses at their edges, threatening to burst inside. Several people, all about my age, are sitting at desks like students. They stare at us, unsmiling, and I suddenly wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole. Dotheyknow why I’m here? Do they know what I’ve done?
‘Please, take your seats,’ Ravensloe says pleasantly. ‘Our class is almost complete.’
I choose an empty seat between two boys. The first is tall and broad, and glares angrily at me when I look at him. The second has high cheekbones and black skin that shines against the white collar round his neck. He’s sitting upright and alert, as if he’s about to take an exam. When I slip into the seat next to him, I catch the scent of peppermint and tobacco. Marquis sits a few seats to the right in the row ahead.
Ravensloe is standing by a desk at the front of the room, an armed Guardian behind him.
‘Look at you all,’ Ravensloe says, his piglike eyes gleaming. ‘Class of 1923.’
Nobody speaks and the Deputy Prime Minister shuffles some paperwork. ‘Straight down to business it is,’ he says. ‘Welcome, all of you, to the DDAD.’
