‘Slow down,’ Marquis says suddenly.
A crowd of people is marching down one of the roads that snakes out of Fitzrovia. I glance at the sign they walk past as they flood into the square.
That’s where Sophie’s halfway house is.
‘The Peace Agreement is corrupt!’ shouts a voice.
The dishevelled-looking group is interspersed with men in white uniforms and helmets.
Guardians of Peace.
I reach instinctively for my class pass and sense Marquis do the same.
‘Free the Third Class!’ a woman shouts at the top of her lungs.
She and the people with her are hoisting signs above their heads.
I flinch as she’s knocked to the ground and the crowd behind her surges, trampling her.
‘Justice for dragons!’ screams another voice.
More Guardians appear, all of them holding silver batons, and I jump aside as another group of protesters runs up behind me, one of their signs hitting my cheek. I reach for Marquis’s hand as the two groups merge, spilling further across the square.
‘Come on,’ Marquis says, pulling me towards home.
We hurry across the cobbles and a flash catches my eye. A silver baton is raised high, glinting in the sunlight just a few steps away.
‘Down with Wyvernmire!’
The air rings with screams as the baton comes down on to the crowd. Blood splatters across my coat and the cover of my portfolio.
‘Oh.’
I sway, the stunned noise that escapes my lips immediately silenced by a woman’s shrieking. Then the crowd is seething, growing bigger and moving closer in a mass of cascading bodies. I register the horror on Marquis’s face and run, then stumble as I realise I’m about to step on someone’s head. The girl is lying on the ground, her long hair matted with blood, her eyes dead and staring.
A shot cracks through the air.
‘Viv!’ Marquis roars.
We break into a sprint. The street-sellers are scattering and Guardian motorcars hurtle down the road towards us. I see home, the tall white house with the blue curtains. I clamber up the steps, tripping as a second shot sounds, followed by a third. I push the key into the lock with shaking hands as Marquis presses urgently against my back.
‘I can’t—’
We collapse into the foyer and Marquis slams the front door behind us. I stare, breathless, at my cousin’s ashen face and bloodstained shoes. My heart beats relentlessly inside my chest and my hair is drenched in sweat.
‘Whatwasthat?’ I say.
‘Rebel protestors,’ Marquis replies.
The dead girl’s bloodied hair flashes in front of my eyes and I press my hand to my mouth, stomach churning. I’ve always imagined the rebels to be an organised political party with official headquarters, its members angry dragons and armed radicals. Not the men and women I see crossing the square each day. Not teenage girls.
I jump as the front door springs open and Mama bursts through, carrying a wailing Ursa.
‘Lock the door,’ she says sharply, setting Ursa down. ‘And keep away from the windows.’
I do as I’m told, exchanging a glance with Marquis as Mama strips Ursa of her coat and boots.
‘Bring me your shoes and anything else that has been dirtied, both of you,’ Mama says, shrugging off her own coat. ‘And tend to your sister.’
