“The one on the train,” I say. “It took Bea. It didn’t kill her. It took her.”

Malik looks at me with a neutral expression. But his dark eyes can’t hide the fact that he’s working something through in his head. “I know,” he says finally.

“Is that normal?” I ask. And then I think: stupid question. Normal is dead.

“We’ll get her back,” Malik says.

“Do you think…that Bea’s a Pathfinder…like you?”

“Like us?” Malik frowns and his mouth makes a tight line. “I think so. Maybe. It felt that way on the Underground. But—”

“But why did it take her? And where?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says. His dark eyes hold a well of secrets. “But we’re gonna help you find her, Ana.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re Pathfinders.”

“What does that even mean?”

“There are pathways,” Malik says, sliding his hand over the table, brushing away invisible crumbs. “Gateways from one world to the next. We find them. Keep them safe and free. We’re not the same as normal people. We’re a network of clans that follow two laws: one—guard the pathways that connect the multiverse, two—return Fallen Normals to their home world.”

“Whoa…hold up. Did you just say…multiverse?”

Malik remains silent. He looks hard at me.

“You told me there were only two universes,” I insist, breathless. “Sol and Lūna.”

“I never said that.”

“But—”

“Ana, listen to me. You need to forget everything you think you know. There is not one universe. There are not two. There are seven.”

15

“Seven?”

“Yes. Seven.”

“A multiverse?”

“That’s right.”

“Seven worlds?”

“Right again.”

“Actual universes?”

“Yes, Ana. That.”

“But seven?”

“Look, you can put it any way you want. Seven worlds. Seven universes. Seven realms. Seven Earths. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t alter the facts.”

I try to come up with something intelligent, or witty in response, but my mouth is dry and my brain feels woolly. I can’t think of a single thing to say.

Malik falls silent and digs into his robot-delivered breakfast—two fried eggs, BBQ sauce, rashers of bacon, fried tomato, beans and black pudding—as if he hasn’t eaten in a week. I take a sip of my coffee and watch him, feeling queasy.

When he’s finished, he pushes the plate away, grabs his mug and eyes me over the steaming rim. “You should eat,” he says.

I shake my head and watch the robot remove his plate. “This is so…it’s all so mad. I just want to get Bea and go home. Where is she, Malik? Tell me.”