“That’s disgusting.” Mel’s lip curls in revulsion.

“I think it’s meant to be a sort of joke,” I say gently, and Mel raises her eyebrows disapprovingly. “I think Metheus is meant to be like us – like the marked. When he takes the knife to his own skin, I think the listener is meant to think of skin books and eternal life.” As someone who spends so long studying stories, I would have thought she would have seen it right away.

“The blanks think we’re fools, then,” Mel says bitterly.

“But you see the similarity? A king who dies and comes back to life. Mayor Longsight is just like Metheus.”

Mel stares at me. “But … in that story, it was just a trick. He was never immortal. A cheap trick that the king convinced himself was true.”

I say nothing, but I don’t take my eyes from her thoughtful, frowning gaze.

Chapter Six

Mel goes to bed early, a notebook and pen in her hand. “My study door doesn’t lock, Leora – and I have no desire to stand watch over you all night. If you attempt to escape you will be found and you will not be the only one to be punished. Understood?” I nod. I won’t try to escape. Now that he has Gull, Longsight has me where he wants me.

Lying on the lumpy cushions, a thin blanket over me, I try not to think about the unlocked door. I try not to think of Gull. I only meant to leave her for a moment.

I try not to think of Mum, and whether what Longsight said was true. She would never turn on me, never. But, lying here in the dark, I imagine her sick and alone and I can see why she despises me. I want to be little again – a young girl who is hemmed in by her mother’s love. I am lonely and cold, and no one cares that I am here.

Mel is snoring – not loudly, but once my mind has fixed on it there is no way I can drift off. I tell myself I will just take a walk up and down the corridor – stretch my legs and perhaps tire myself out enough to bring sleep. I’m a guest, not a prisoner, I repeat under my breath.

The study door eases open quietly, and outside I feel like I can breathe easier. I walk a little down the corridor – and that’s when I see it: light pooling from beneath the door that leads to the museum…

I’ll just take a look.

I creep up the stairs and emerge behind the reception desk. The stone steps beyond the wide foyer draw me to them – I scamper up, eyes wide, checking each window as I scuttle past. When I peer from the central window at the top of the first set of steps I see a guard out front. I edge away from the window carefully, towards the exhibit of the stories that has been calling to me from the moment I set foot in the museum.