There was another ceremony, Jane knew, a public affair when the Time Police joined members of the royal family, politicians, foreign dignitaries and so on in a formal show of remembrance, but this ceremony was theirs alone. Just for the Time Police themselves.

Because we’re the people who understand, she thought, suddenly. They were us once. Before they made the ultimate sacrifice. When they went on and left us behind to count the cost.

Looking down at the survivors, the cost had been massive. There were far fewer complete people than there should have been.

Commander Hay stepped forwards. The sun shafted through the glass roof, glinting off medals and belt buckles. The chimes had ceased and the great bell was about to toll the hour. Her voice rang around the atrium.

‘Stop the clock.’

In mid-chime – the clock stopped.

There was absolute silence. No one moved.

A lectern had been set up on which reposed a large book. Slowly, carefully, Commander Hay opened the cover. Jane could hear the stiff pages crackle.

In a clear, strong voice, she began to read, her voice carrying easily around the atrium. This was the annual reading of the names of those who had died in the Time Wars. Or had died later as a result of their injuries.

And every year, thought Jane, the number of those present would decrease and the list of names in the book would increase and then, one day, it would be all list and no people.

She looked down at the serving officers far beneath her. A lot of them were too young now to have fought in the Time Wars, but they carried their own memories and their own losses just the same.

Just like me, she thought, struggling, as she always did, to resolve the hazy memories of her parents into something more solid. Something she could hold on to . . .

She looked at Matthew, staring solidly into space and giving no clue as to what his thoughts were. Even Luke was standing quietly, looking down at his feet. What was he thinking at this moment?

The reading took a long time. At one point, a man in a wheelchair shifted and made a sound of distress. Or pain, perhaps. The officer nearest to him, a big man whose many combat flashes denoted an exciting career, crossed the aisle to bend over him and murmur something, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. The two of them stayed together for the rest of the ceremony. Jane felt a sudden lump in her throat and looked away.

Eventually, Commander Hay read the last name, paused and then carefully closed the book.

Major Callen stepped forwards and called the room to attention. The crash of their feet echoed around the atrium. Overhead, on the walkway, the trainees did the same.

Next year, thought Jane. Next year I’ll be down there with them.

There was the traditional minute’s silence of remembrance and then: