“Good morning, girls,” she said. “Good to see you all so bright and early. Many of you have expressed an interest in scientific research as a career path”—I hadn’t—“so this should be one of our most thought-provoking lectures.” A smattering of applause. “Our speaker has already had a terribly exciting career.” I wasn’t convinced. “He transferred from the University of Scion Stockholm in 2046, completed his studies in London, and now works for SciSORS, the largest research facility in the central cohort. We’re truly honored to have him here today.” There was a shiver of excitement from the front. “Please put your hands together and welcome our speaker—Dr. Nicklas Nygård.”

My head snapped up. It was him.

Nick.

He hadn’t changed a bit. He was exactly as I remembered him: tall, soft-featured, handsome. Still young, though his eyes bore the burden of a hectic adult life. He wore a black suit and a red tie, like all Scion officials. His hair was smoothed back with pomade, a style popular in Stockholm. When he smiled, the prefects sat up straighter.

“Good morning, ladies.”

“Good morning, Dr. Nygård.”

“Thank you for having me here today.” He stuffed his papers with the same hands that had stitched my injured arm when I was nine. He looked right at me, and he smiled. Behind my ribs, my heart flickered. “I hope this talk is enlightening, but I won’t take offense if you fall asleep.”

Laughter. Most officials weren’t so jocular. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Seven years of wondering where he might be, and he’d walked into my school. A picture from my memory. He talked about his research into the causes of unnaturalness, and about his experiences as a student in two different Scion citadels. He made jokes and encouraged audience participation, asking questions as often as he answered them. He even had the Schoolmistress smiling. When the bell rang, I was first out of the lecture hall, heading for the corridor at the back of the lecture theater.

I had to find him. For seven years I’d tried to understand what had happened in the poppy field. There had been no dog. He was the only one who could tell me what had left the cold scars on my hand. The only one who could give me answers.

I headed down the corridor, buffeting past chattering Year Eights. There he was, outside the staff room, shaking the hand of the Schoolmistress. When he saw me, his eyes brightened.

“Hello,” he said.

“Dr. Nygård—” I could hardly get the words out. “Your speech was—very inspiring.”

“Thank you.” He smiled again, and his eyes pierced mine. He knew. He remembered. “What’s your name?”

Yes, he knew. My palms tingled.