‘However, thanks to the generosity of our nation’s leader, you have each been given an opportunity. A chance to be someone else. A chance at redemption.’
The silence in the room is palpable. Sophie still hasn’t moved. I raise my hand.
‘We were told we would be given a job,’ I say. ‘What exactly will that involve?’
Finally, Sophie turns her head to look at me. Her gaze is cold and unrecognisable.
‘Excellent question,’ Ravensloe says.
He gestures to the Guardian, who walks over to the door and opens it. Two men and a woman walk in. One man has a long white beard; the other is tall and awkward-looking. The woman is pretty, with dark hair and red glasses that look too big for her face. Ravensloe beams at them as if they are the bearers of great news.
‘You will each be assigned one of three categories,’ he says. ‘These are your heads of categories: Professor Marcus Lumens, Mr Rob Knott and Dr Dolores Seymour.’
The woman, Dr Dolores Seymour, gives a small wave.
‘Among yourselves, there will be no class distinctions,’ says Ravensloe. ‘You are all of equal status with equal chances. However, much like in life outside Bletchley Park, contribution is key. Fail to contribute and you will be demoted.’
‘Demoted? What’s lower thanmisfit?’ Marquis says jokingly, making the girl behind him giggle.
Ravensloe’s eyes swivel towards him, all trace of his smile gone.
‘Do you really want to know?’ he says softly.
I glare at Marquis, and for a second I wish I could slap that defiant smile off his face. He’s going to get us into trouble before we’ve even started. I know he’s thinking about our discussion on the train. The lives of the Third Class, the rumours about the Peace Agreement and the Class System. ButIfeel a strange lightness in my chest, a sense of relief. If all I need to do is work hard, then I – and my family – will be safe. I’ve been playing this game my whole life, after all. Work, grades, praise … these are the things I know.
Ravensloe clears his throat. ‘Before your arrival, you signed the Official Secrets Act, as did all persons working at the DDAD. You will not discuss your work with anyone except each other – andonlyif necessary. There is no place for petty conversation here. The blackouts on the windows are to be in place in every room before nightfall. Allowing the enemy to discover our location would pose a risk to our victory and indeed our lives.’
I think of the dragon attack back at St Pancras, my skin crawling at the memory of the flames licking up the Guardians’ legs.
‘The townspeople have been fed the pretext that we are here for administrative purposes only,’ Ravensloe says. ‘If any visitors to this house ask, you will perpetuate that pretext. You may not send letters or communicate with anyone outside Bletchley.’
The boy in the white collar drums his fingers impatiently on his thigh.
‘Shifts are seven hours long and you will have Sundays off. You will work with the other members of your category as a team in order to complete your mission as quickly as possible. If you provide us with the information needed to win the war, the members of each successful category will be free to reintegrate into society in the class you belonged to before you accepted this job,orat the time of the last census, whichever is higher. Any crimes you may have committed will be pardoned.’
I stare at Sophie, the edges of my vision softening.
Orat the time of the last census.
Is it fate that we’re both here together? Or is it the most outrageous stroke of luck I will ever encounter? The last census was almost a year ago, before the Examination. Before Sophie was demoted. Meaning that if her category succeeds, she’ll go back to the Second Class. Back home.
My breath catches in my throat. Will we be put in the same category? If we are, then this is my chance to give her back what I took from her. If we all succeed, Marquis, Sophie and I will go back to the Second Classtogether.
This is my chance to save her.
‘Are there any questions?’ Ravensloe says, stroking his beard again.
In my peripheral vision, I see the boy in the white collar raise his hand, but I’m still staring at Sophie, willing her to acknowledge me.
‘Just to be clear, Deputy Prime Minister … who exactly are we fighting in this war?’
The boy’s deep, steady voice makes me turn my head before I can stop myself. He has a Third Class accent, possiblyBristolian, but his tone is as sharp as cut glass. He sees me looking and his lips press into a crooked smile. Ravensloe narrows his eyes.
‘Anyone who plots against the state, anyone who collaborates with the rebellion, anyone who harbours the enemy, human or dragon … that is who we are fighting. Does that clear things up for you, boy?’
The smile that spread for me widens as the boy holds Ravensloe’s gaze.
‘Indeed it does. Sir.’
