“Will this just go on for ever?” I say, looking at where the book lies in burned tatters. “The blanks attack and we retaliate? Haven’t you grown tired of all this – the hatred and division and death? Will we repay death with more death or will we redeem it and bring people to life while we still can?” He is still. Jack Minnow is terribly, masterfully still. “There’s time, Jack. My dad would have wanted me to live and flourish. I don’t know what your dad wanted for you, but I’m sure it wasn’t this.”

“Compassion killed my father,” he says. “You can’t live long if you have a weak heart – one that is soft to everything.” He lets the pause spool out and when he speaks again his voice is soft. “I intend to live.”

We stay there, shoulder to shoulder until something behind us scuttles and we both turn, tensing. It’s a crow. Flustered and flapping, stuck in the building after finding its way in somehow. We gaze at it, watch it slam against windows. After a minute the bird moves, and, drawn by slow dawn light peeping through empty window frames, it gets lucky – a broken window: red, blue and green glass lost to the stones. The crow flits through it and, with a shriek, is free.

Minnow and I walk side by side through the doors. He turns left, I turn right, and the crow soars above us.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Twenty-nine

I told Dad that painting a house on the rock where we hid the spare key was a ridiculous idea.

“Why don’t you just write a sign saying ‘Burglars: help yourselves!’?” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Where’s your sense of magic, little light?” He had grinned at me. “This is a fairy house.” He lifted up the delicately decorated rock for me to see. “You’ll see; they’ll take care of our key.” I shook my head and told him he’d regret it, but the key always stayed in place and no one ever broke in. But now there are skin book stealers on the prowl, and no amount of fairy magic could protect us from Sana’s plans.

The rock is heavier than I remember and woodlice scuttle away when I move it. A spider stands guard and seems to step aside when I reach down and pick up the key between thumb and finger. The key is cold and muddy, scales of rust beginning to show at the bow, but it is there: I’m going back home.