When the house had woken that morning, there had been no sign of Tim. He suspected that he’d run away, which was jolly well the right thing to do in the circumstances. If it wasn’t so far, he’d have gone, too. He had written to his father explaining the circumstances of his misery last night, and expected him to arrive next week to take him away.

After a moment’s silence, Phipps blurted out, ‘He’s still ill, Sir!’

‘Very well then. He’s going to miss out on having a go at the Vickers gun then, isn’t he?’ Rocastle was pleased at the smiles of anticipation from the boys. ‘The Regiment has kindly lent us one such weapon for the next month. Now, stand by for inspection.’

Rocastle slowly walked along the rows, noting an undone button here and an unpolished rifle there. This was the part he enjoyed most.

Timothy had spent most of the night in the tree in the orchard, the one he’d been sitting under when he’d got the Pod. He thought he knew why that had happened, now, because he’d actually been up this particular tree quite a few times before, tapping the wood with his fingers, getting a rhythm going, trying to be a ragtime drummer. The tree knew who he was, and had trusted him with what it contained.

Or at least, that was what the Pod said. Since he’d died and come back to life, Tim had been even more certain that his prize talked to him, told him things. Told him he could do things.

It was with him while he sat in the crown of the tree that night. As the hours went by, he watched snails unfold and struggle across the grass and bats flicker through the trees. He heard the distant rustle of badgers in the darkness and the sharp cries of foxes mating.

He wasn’t cold. The burns on his neck had healed and vanished. As well as watching the world around him, he was watching himself and trying to understand all he was. He kept looking at his hands, marvelling at what complex things they were, how much time was inscribed on them. Every now and then, he felt a burning desire to find a mirror and see his face. He knew that it was the same, but he also knew that it would seem different.

He wasn’t just here in the tree, either. He was wandering over the fields and watching the others in their beds, walking down the aisle between them. He was a baby lying in the arms of a woman who was the nearest thing he had to a mother, with stubby limbs that he could barely move. He was a slender enchanted sword, he was the rain in the air, the light of the stars, a word on a page in a book that he also was.