by Natasha Ngan
For what seemed far too long a time to be decent in public, Thierry’s eyes crawled down the front of Alba’s dress. It was as though his gaze had somehow forced apart the fabric stretched over her chest and he’d pushed his way inside, careless fingers crawling over her flesh. She felt violated.
‘Return?’ Alba asked, resisting the urge to punch him straight in the face (which would not be seemly of a young North lady, least of all because they were in a holy place). ‘Where have you been?’
‘France – I’ve been attending boarding school in Paris, studying at my father’s old school. But now I’m nineteen I have returned to work with my father. And find a wife too, of course.’
God help the poor girl, thought Alba.
But she gave him what she hoped was a sweet smile and said, ‘And have you found anyone yet?’
Thierry raised his eyebrows. He let out a chuckling laugh. ‘At least my parents found me someone with a sense of humour.’
It took Alba a moment to take in his words. By that time, the vicar had stepped up to the great carved altar in front of them, the choir in the stalls beginning to sing as an organ flooded the cathedral with noise, and thankfully all attention was diverted from Alba, whose face was pale with shock at the prospect of marrying Thierry Burton-Lyon.
Her mother’s fateful words came back to her, the meaning all too horribly clear now.
Because one day, if things go as planned, the whole world will care what you think.
Alba was to become the wife of the Lord Minister’s son.
Throughout the service, Thierry kept a hand close to her on the pew, moving it occasionally to brush her hips or legs as though he’d already claimed her for his own. He snuck sideways glances, smiling in a way that made Alba’s skin crawl. Every time his hand grazed her dress it made her want to be sick. Each time he looked at her it made her feel like screaming, like jumping up and running out of the cathedral.
Running out of her life.
Alba knew one thing for certain. There was no way on earth she was going to spend the rest of her life with this boy.
When the service ended, Oxana turned to her, a sly look in her cool blue eyes.
‘My darling, I see you have met Master Burton-Lyon,’ she said, leaning in, her voice low so Thierry couldn’t hear. ‘We’re joining him and his parents for lunch. We thought it would be a wonderful opportunity for the both of you to get to know each other better. We’re so hoping you’ll get along.’
Oxana was smiling at Alba as though Thierry was some delicious treat she couldn’t wait to give her. Her mother truly thought that Alba was going to be happy with her match.
It was so ironic Alba could laugh.
‘Mrs White.’
Thierry leant past her and stretched out a hand to her mother. He raised her fingers to his lips. ‘You are looking as beautiful as ever.’
Oxana’s smile glittered. ‘And you even handsomer than when I last saw you. You must tell me all about your recent adventures in Paris, Thierry. I do miss that city. Memory-surfing simply does not do it justice.’
She rose, Thierry standing with her. They started towards the end of the pew where crowds were moving down the centre of the hall, leaving the cathedral. Her mother glanced over her shoulder to make sure Alba was going to follow them before being swallowed up by the rush of colourful silk suits and sparkling dresses. Her father’s seat was already empty; he always left as soon as the service finished.
Alba toyed with the idea of not following them. But it was never really an option. As much as it killed her to admit it, she wouldn’t dare defy her mother in such an outright, bold way.
Though her secrets felt safe in the ink-blue shadows of the night, daylight exposed her, took her bravery away.
Brushing down her dress and swinging her coat over her shoulders, Alba followed the crowds out of St Paul’s, the thought of what Seven would make of Thierry just enough to bring a small, sad smile to her face.
45
SEVEN
Despite everything that had happened, Seven felt weirdly happy that morning when he woke.
He didn’t try convincing himself that last night had all been a dream. He didn’t groan at the thought of having to see Alba again. He just stumbled out of bed, head groggy from tiredness, pulling on his tattered grey shirt and blue trousers before heading out of the flat, a twisted little smile dancing on his lips.
Yes, his life was a mess. But for the first time ever, he had someone to share that mess with.
Seven headed through Vauxhall to Clapham Road. The street was busy with traffic. Glaring grey light from the overcast day glanced off the metal shells of cars and motorbikes and lorries, the blare of their horns and grumbling engines loud in the fume-clogged air.
Digging in his trouser pocket, Seven pulled out the few coins he had. He bit back a curse. As always, it was less than he’d thought; even though he’d been poor his whole life, he still half hoped some sort of miracle would happen and he’d suddenly discover a giant pot of gold tucked down the front of his pants. But his last payment from Carpenter for stealing Alastair White’s skid had gone almost entirely on rent, and there was barely any left.
Seven’s stomach let out a growl.
‘I know,’ he said sadly, patting it. ‘Trust me, I know.’
He followed the road towards the Overground track that cut through at Clapham North. Most of the old railway lines had been removed for new buildings, but like so much of South the regeneration work was often abandoned due to lack of government funding. Seven didn’t mind though. As with the ancient Battersea Power Station, Southers had appropriated the space for their own use. He liked the market that had sprung up along the disused tracks here. It was busy and noisy: perfect conditions for thieving.
At the bridge over the tracks, Seven jumped the low brick wall and went down the grassy bank onto the railway line. Amid the tangled foliage that carpeted the metal tracks in greens and browns, hundreds of market stands and hawker stalls had been set up. They ran down the centre of the disused line in a colourful display of flapping awnings and signs. His stomach growled louder at the food smells wafting up from cookers in thick clouds of steam.
‘Two for a pound,’ called out a stall-owner, catching Seven eyeing her melons (the fruit kind, he might add).
Ducking his head, he moved on through the busy crowds.
The trouble with stealing from Southers was that they expected it. That’s why Seven often took food from his skid-thieving jobs in North to keep him going. Northers left their food out, not a care in the world. In South you were considered a prince if you weren’t so starving you could actually save food for later.
After a few minutes browsing the market, Seven found what he was looking for. A stall selling freshly made pastries and breads was wedged in on one side by a gnarled old oak. The tree’s wide trunk protruded onto the path, creating a bottleneck outside the stall.
Seven slipped in with the crowd. He followed its flow, moving closer to the bakery stall. Even over the stink of the bodies pressed against him, he could smell fresh bread, and it made his mouth water.
He was right next to the stall now. He chanced a quick side-glance to see what was on offer; all of it looked delicious. Then, keeping his head down, he reached out a hand.
He was away with a handful of pastry before he’d even taken another breath. Seven allowed himself to be swallowed back up in the stream of people. He counted in his head as he moved away from the stall, waiting for a shout or cry of recognition.
One.
Nothing.
Two.
Nothing.
Three.
Still nothing.
Confident he’d got away with it, he looked at what he’d stolen. It was some sort of sweet pastry, sticky with a thick maple coating and braided with raisins.
‘Well done, hands,’ Seven muttered, grinning, then lifted the pastry to his lips. But before he could take a bite –
Crash!
; Out of nowhere, something collided into him.
Cries flew up, the crowd scattering as Seven was bowled over, the back of his head smacking into the trampled grass. His eyes jammed shut as pain snapped down his spine, and then he was opening them, looking into the black-furred face of a dog.
A huge, effing beast of a dog.
Its front paws pressed down heavy on his stomach. Letting out a huff of hot, wet air into his face, it dipped its head down, going for the pastry clutched to Seven’s chest. Its rough tongue scraped over his hands.
‘Hey!’ Seven cried. ‘That’s mine!’
Grabbing the dog’s muzzle, he shoved it away.
The dog growled. Its ears snapped back. Baring its teeth, it lunged forward and grabbed the collar of his shirt. Teeth dug into his skin. The dog jerked its head from side to side and the sound of the fabric tearing was like a whip-crack through the air. When the dog finally pulled away, still snarling, a piece of Seven’s tattered shirt hung from its muzzle.
Seven scrambled to his feet. He held up the sad, squashed remains of his pastry, debating whether or not to eat it. So it has a little dog-dribble on it now, he thought. What doesn’t? Then he realised the crowd had gone silent, everyone staring at him.
His cheeks flamed.
‘What?’ Seven shouted, glaring at them.
It took him a few more seconds to realise what they were staring at.
The front of his ripped shirt had flapped open, and the tattoo on his chest – the outline of a saw, one of the marks the London Guard had shown on their broadcast about the raid, offering a monetary reward for information that led to any of the skid-thieves’ capture – was now clear for everyone to see.
‘Oh, crap,’ Seven muttered.
Then he turned and ran.
46
ALBA
They had a table at Goldman’s Grill, an expensive, brasserie-style restaurant in Paternoster Square. It was on the top floor of what used to be one of the world’s premiere investment banks before America’s triple recession at the end of the twenty-first century. A glass wall ran along one side of the restaurant. Low-hanging chandeliers lit everything in a crystalline glow. Waiters in black waistcoats and silver aprons moved carefully between the tables, trays balanced on their hands.
Alba was sat with her back to the window, though she wished she were facing it instead. The view over Paternoster Square with St Paul’s’ great spired dome would have been far more pleasant to look at than the faces of her parents, Thierry, and his mother and father.
She had been surprised they’d chosen such a busy restaurant for lunch. The Burton-Lyons were the most recognisable family in London. Security would be of the utmost importance. But towards the end of the meal, Alba noticed a couple of men in black suits standing just outside the entrance to the restaurant, scanning the room behind dark glasses; they must be the Burton-Lyons’ guards.
‘Don’t worry,’ Thierry said when he noticed her looking. He leant in close. ‘They’ll leave us alone whenever I ask.’
‘Perfect,’ she muttered.
They had been at lunch for almost two hours. The waiters had just brought dessert: rosewater crème brûlées and delicate vials of sweet wine. Though no one had brought up the specific subject of marriage yet, Alba knew it was coming. The Whites and the Burton-Lyons had never dined together alone before. There was a reason they were starting now.
Thierry’s hand was hovering dangerously near her leg, and she was just wondering whether to slap it away or ignore it when there was a faint buzzing sound from somewhere under the table.
Thierry pulled out a small tablet from his trouser pocket. Despite herself, Alba couldn’t help but be interested in the device. As well as limiting her watching the Net, her parents wouldn’t allow her to have any tablets of her own.
A girl’s face came up on the screen as the caller.
‘A friend of yours?’ asked Alba, trying to sound uninterested.
Thierry slid his finger over the screen to reject the call. ‘Just a girl I met who will not stop hounding me,’ he said, shrugging. ‘It’s unfortunate when girls take a few nights together as meaning something more. They need to understand that there is no time for love when you are preparing to run a country.’ He put the tablet back in his pocket, and before she could stop him, placed a hand on Alba’s thigh. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’
Alba broke his gaze, cheeks burning with disgust. Thierry had effectively just told her he’d already slept with quite a few girls … and he had said it so casually, as though it were nothing. Was this really the sort of man she’d have to spend the rest of her years with?
And as for love? Alba didn’t care what Thierry thought. She certainly had time for it (with someone other than him, of course). She wanted romance and passion. She wanted the butterflies-in-your-stomach and the head-in-the-clouds kind of love. The sort of love she read about in novels, where the heroes and heroines were prepared to die before they would ever give each other up.
She wanted –
‘Seven.’
Alba nearly jumped out of her seat.
‘What?’ she blustered, looking round wildly at Thierry.
‘I know,’ he said, nodding at her expression. ‘Seven families already asking my parents for my match with their daughters. There’ll be more, I’m sure.’
Alba blinked.
His hand tightened on her leg. ‘That’s why my parents are in such a hurry to announce our match –’
‘Are you whispering our secrets, Thierry?’
Thierry’s father, Christian Burton-Lyon, smiled at them from across the table. There was something almost ridiculous about his appearance: his hair was set in little oily black curls on the top of his head, and a moustache twirled over his top lip. His neck and belly were wide with age.
‘You’ve only been back in London less than a week.’ Christian Burton-Lyon’s smooth voice was thick with a French accent. He twirled a glass in one hand, teeth glittering. ‘At this rate, soon the entire city will know the details of our most intimate business.’
Thierry gave a brusque laugh. ‘Apologies, Father. But how is a man to keep quiet when he is sitting next to such a beautiful woman?’
‘Too right, my dear boy,’ said Christian Burton-Lyon, smiling. ‘Too right.’
‘Oh, will you boys behave.’
Thierry’s mother, Julia, smiled and shook her head. She was pretty, with a tall, slender frame and short brown hair cropped around her chin. Unlike her husband and son, her accent was that of a high-class Norther.
‘Your mother is right,’ Christian Burton-Lyon continued, after giving his wife a playful poke. ‘No matter how eager we may be to share it, the news is not to go public until the Winter-turn Ball.’
‘My lips are sealed, Father.’
‘Merveilleux. Now, where were we … ’
As the adults at the table fell back into conversation, Thierry leant close to Alba. She didn’t hear a word of what he was saying, still reeling from the knowledge that their engagement would be announced at the Winter-turn Ball. That was just a couple of weeks away. It was far too soon.
Though a million light-years away was too soon when it came to Thierry.
Dolly had promised she’d find a way to save Alba from marriage. But what could she do in two weeks? And once the news of the engagement went public, Alba would never be able to escape it. Her name would be tied to Thierry’s forever.
‘What now?’ Thierry growled suddenly, pulling his hand off her knee and sliding the tablet back out of his pocket.
‘Another needy ex-girlfriend?’ asked Alba coolly.
He didn’t answer. He was holding the tablet in such a way she couldn’t see the screen, so when he let out a booming laugh, she flinched.
‘Wonderful news from the London Guard,’ Thierry said loudly, cutting off the chatter around the table. ‘They have just named another of the escaped memory-thieves from the raid at Borough Market. Apparently he was spotted in South an hour ago. T
he tattoo on his chest was recognised as belonging to one of the thieving crews. They’ve got his ID now. The ugly bastard will be caught in no time.’
Thierry set his tablet on the table. He pushed it forward so everyone could see the picture of the boy on its screen.
Alba’s heart nearly flat-out stopped.
Before she’d even looked at the image she knew whose face it would be, but it still hit her with a force so strong it took her breath away. There he was, those small grey eyes and rumpled hair and beautiful, twisted grin looking up at her from the screen, and printed below them the words:
WANTED FOR IMMEDIATE ARREST
47
SEVEN
‘You look terrible, man.’
Seven had forgotten Sunday was Kola’s day off. As he crashed through the door to the flat, panting from running the whole way back from the market, he stumbled back in surprise to see Kola sitting on the sofa.
In the murky light, the sky outside thick with clouds, the flat was cast in shadows. A single light buzzed overhead. Kola was dressed in a slim brown shirt and black trousers. He had been reading from a newspaper folded open across his knees; an underground South publication from the look of it, the headline reading: BLOODBATH AT BOROUGH MARKET. He placed it on the table, eyes not straying from Seven as he took in his bloodied chest and ripped shirt.
‘You look really terrible.’
Seven let out a disbelieving breath. ‘Thanks for that,’ he said through gritted teeth. He pushed the door shut behind him and sagged against it. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
Kola stood. His eyes paused on the tattoo on Seven’s chest before moving to look over the damage of the dog’s bite below, where his flesh was raw and mangled.
