It wasn’t simply Lottie’s hair that had everyone on edge; the whole palace felt like it was on a tightrope, ready to topple over at any moment if someone so much as breathed too deeply. Five days had passed since the nightmare in the Rose Wood, and, while Lottie was desperate to figure out Leviathan’s plan, first she had to contend with Ellie’s family, and that meant she had to be as presentable as possible to soften the blow of the terrible discovery she’d made.

‘I think it’s best if we avoid a media scandal over your hair. It’s the last thing we need,’ Simien hissed, tutting to himself.

Lottie couldn’t help sighing. She felt like the only person in the world who didn’t look at her hair as if it was a disaster or even something to be concerned about. There was only one person who understood, and she was hundreds of miles away in Japan.

Thinking about Sayuri filled Lottie’s head with motorbike fumes and sharp, intelligent glances from midnight-black eyes. It made her chest ache like part of her soul had been snipped away. The summer they’d just spent at Takeshin had changed everything. The friends she’d made in Banshee, the motorbike gang, Miko, Rio and Wei, and their notorious Pink Demon leader, the silken-haired Sayuri who’d become more like a sister, were on the other side of the world but felt close to Lottie’s heart. They were linked not only by their schools but by the secrets their ancestors had trusted them with, the twin swords – one of which had saved Lottie by cutting her free.

Lottie felt calm as she stared at herself in the glass, fingers moving up to twiddle the ends of her freshly chopped bob. But as soon as her skin met the curling ends of her hair, memory jolted through her like a static shock. She was gripping the sword, flicking it up with determined abandon through her hair, freeing herself from Ingrid’s and Leviathan’s grasp, then running until her lungs burned.

Letting go, she tilted her chin up, marvelling at how much older the trim made her look. Ellie had done an immaculate job, the cut framing her apple-cheeked face, leaving her body lighter and revealing a version of herself that felt more Lottie than ever. The only problem was …

‘You look too much like your real ancestors,’ Simien moaned behind her, mumbling a series of curses. ‘We need a Wolfson, not a Mayfutt.’

It was undeniable. Lottie looked the spitting image of her ancestor Liliana Mayfutt’s male alter ego, William Tufty, right down to the splatter of freckles on the bridge of her nose. Every time she spotted them she felt like the ghosts of her family were watching her and expecting something.