by Violet Grace
It happens so fast I’m too shocked to do anything.
The remaining creatures stop and pivot in a slow arc, like particularly nasty dogs turning on their prey. The one dragging me by the leg lets out a low, rumbling snarl and I thrash even more feverishly. I don’t want to be anywhere near this thing when it’s pissed off.
I turn my head to see who or what managed to annoy these creatures and probably make this whole situation worse. I make out the silhouette of a … a woman?
She strides towards the creatures through the rubble. The brown leather outfit she’s poured into looks like armour. Narrow grooves snake up the legs and the bodice, so that she resembles one of those pictures in anatomy books that shows exposed muscle fibres. She’s close enough now that I can see a round golden brooch of a unicorn insignia pinned above her left breast. Her dark brown hair is cropped close, and she has what I’m guessing are bird guts smeared on her black motorcycle boots. Her movements are precise and practised.
Police or military? Whatever she is, she’s trained.
Mid-stride she raises her gloved hand, adorned with silver knuckledusters, and levels it at the creature holding my leg. I clamp my eyes shut, anticipating another blast. A whimper escapes me as another explosion rocks the room. The air sizzles and I open my eyes to see a plume of dust that used to be the creature.
The woman locks eyes with the third walking carcass, who’s now forgotten me, snarling and leaping towards her with its spear outstretched. Looking completely unfazed, she raises her arm in a single fluid movement and obliterates it with another burst of light, before turning to the remaining creature.
‘Last chance,’ she says to it, but it’s closing in on her, stupidly defiant. ‘Too late,’ she mutters, and it disintegrates before me.
I clamber to my feet and scan the room for more danger. The table and chairs from the cafe are gone. The distinctive black and red tiles of the Poynter Room floor are cracked, chipped or else smashed entirely, replaced by small craters where dirty water has pooled. The stained-glass windows are all shattered, and shards of faded coloured glass litter the floor. The woman remains in place, watching me silently, as if deliberately keeping her distance. She doesn’t seem at all surprised by any of this. I’m not sure I’m any safer with this assassin, but at least she’s not covered in pus and rot.
Looking up, I see a branch from a giant oak tree poking through where the roof used to be. Half a wall has gone, leaving bricks exposed like jagged teeth. I can see directly outside, into what should be a courtyard for the tourists to sit. But the grassy areas are overgrown with foliage and flowers in every colour. The pond is filled with slimy water, overgrown lily pads and felled masonry. As far as I can make out, the rest of the V&A is in a similar state of disrepair. All around, thick vines and flowers are strangling the brick walls, claiming the buildings. The air is thick and heavy with moisture, brimming with the harmonic chirps of crickets and songbirds.
I spin around in a trance, disoriented. This damage didn’t happen from the blast a few minutes ago. It’s years, even decades, old. I rub my hands through my hair, feeling for bumps. Perhaps I’ve sustained more serious injuries than I thought.
I spot a motorbike. Vintage, by the looks of it. It’s shiny and black with a heavy bronze trim and oversized exhausts. It looks out of place among the chaotic jungle.
The woman clears her throat behind me and I whirl around, letting out a yelp as I come face to face with her. I’m about to run, when I realise that she’s transformed from bad-arse assassin to looking, well, hesitant. Shy even. In fact, now that I can see her face properly, I’m surprised to discover she looks not much older than me.
With one fluid movement she drops her knee to a moss-covered tile, rests a forearm on her front leg and bows her head. A moment passes as I watch her. She doesn’t move an inch, just stares fixedly at the ground as if lost in prayer, or waiting for me to talk. My heart’s pounding and I can’t think of a single thing to say. I just stand there, staring down at the top of her head like a complete idiot, wondering what to do.
The silence drags on and it appears that if I don’t break it, I could be standing here for the rest of my life.
‘What is going on?’ I say in a voice I wish wasn’t so shaky.
She lifts her head. ‘Please, Your Highness, it’s not safe here.’
Your Highness?
‘They were just an advance party,’ she continues. ‘Reinforcements will be on the way.’ Her voice is unexpectedly soft, given what I just saw she’s capable of.
‘Who is they?’
‘I cannot say for sure, Your Highness,’ she says. ‘What I am certain of is who they serve. He will not be satisfied with this outcome. Allow me to escort you.’ And then, a little too fast, as if she might have caused offence, she adds, ‘It’s your decision, of course. But the Chancellor will know what to do. I must take you to him.’
Her voice is so quiet that it takes me a minute to register what she has said. The Chancellor? What is this?
Again I consider running, but figure it would be futile. I couldn’t outrun the bike. And I’m a little worried about what’s poking out the top of her boot. It could be a knife. Or the handle of a gun. And I’ve already seen what she can do with those knuckledusters.
Goosebumps sprout along my arms as the sun disappears behind the canopy of trees above us. A breeze whispers through the broken building. The woman doesn’t seem to want to hurt me. In fact, I’m pretty sure she just saved me.
‘I think there’s been some mistake,’ I say.
‘Yes, Your Highness. We did not anticipate that events would move so quickly. There was only time to send me. And I should have detected the predators before they attacked. I will detail my error in full in my report.’
Again with ‘Your Highness’.
She bows her head towards the ground as if expecting me to berate her.
‘Um, that’s not what I meant,’ I say. ‘I’m really glad you came along when you did and saved me from those … those things.’ I wait for her to look up but she doesn’t. ‘Who are you and why do you keep calling me “Your Highness”? And where am I?’
Even with her eyes fixed on the ground, I can see her brow furrow in puzzlement.
‘Trinovantum.’ She says it slowly, as if the answer is so obvious that I must be asking a trick question. ‘I am First Officer Jules of the Protectorate,’ she continues, now with clipped military intonation. ‘I am your escort —’
‘Can we talk like normal people?’ I interrupt. ‘It’s just too weird talking to the top of someone’s head.’
‘Of course, Your Highness.’ She rises deferentially, but still doesn’t look me in the eye.
‘And where exactly is “Trinovantum”?’ I say.
First Officer Jules looks even more confused, as if I’ve just asked what shape blue is, or how tall is the number seven.
‘Never mind,’ I say. ‘Can you tell me how to get back home?’
She brightens a little. ‘Yes, Your Highness. Of course, Your Highness.’
I let out an exasperated sigh and plant my hands on my hips. ‘Why do you keep calling me that?’
Uncertainty, or perhaps fear, returns to her face. ‘Forgive me, Your Highness. My answers are unsatisfactory. The Chancellor will know the proper answers.’ She regards me warily. I’m clearly not who – or what – she was expecting.
Before I can ask another question, the gentle breeze suddenly builds, growling to life as a blustering wind. It’s cold and has a quality that I’ve never felt in wind before. I’d swear it’s hissing around me specifically, enclosing me and menacing me. The force is so strong that I stumble forward, almost losing my balance. The giant tree branches above us quake and creak. The songbirds’ chirps turn to squawks before the flock flees.
First Officer Jules springs into some kind of ninja stance. She looks back towards me, her confusion replaced with purpose.
‘Your Highness, my counsel is that we leave,’ she says, sn
iffing the air. ‘Now. Another pack won’t be far off. And if I’m correct, they’ll come in number.’
A hundred questions flood my mind, but before I can ask any of them, First Officer Jules is ushering me through the ruins of the V&A towards the motorbike. I don’t want to take my chances with those other creatures and, considering I don’t have any other options, I follow. The force of the wind is now so great that I feel like we’re in a wind tunnel, each step deliberate and exaggerated as my whole body pushes against the wind.
‘What’s happening?’ I shout as we navigate broken bricks and tiles and step through murky puddles. She just pushes me forward, then produces a second helmet from the side of the bike and hands it to me.
I grapple with the helmet clasp, finally forcing it on. It does little to drown out the howling wind, which has grown even more ferocious. Giant trees whip around as if they’re saplings. Swarms of petals are loosed from flowers, creating mini-cyclones of colour. Enormous butterflies with wings the size of dinner plates struggle against the wind.
Jules slings her leg over the bike, and signals for me to climb aboard. Reaching around, she grabs my hand, pulling me in close and indicating for me to hang on. The engine thunders to life and I tentatively place my hands on the grooved brown leather of this strange woman’s bodysuit.
Behind me, I feel a presence, dark and wrong. A shard of ice slivers down my spine.
As we speed away, I whip my head back over my shoulder. Another pack of the pus-faced creatures is marauding through the ruins in our direction, leaping off walls and through broken windows. I see a tall figure in among them, more a man than a creature. He’s wearing a leather kilt and a studded leather jacket. I can’t make out his features, but I’m certain that I can feel his eyes boring directly into my soul.
chapter 4
The bike screams through the rubble of the V&A, and I take in the extent of the damage. Every room has been wrecked and ruined by whatever disaster happened here. Sculpture and paintings litter the floor. Walls and roofs have collapsed.
Jules takes a sharp right, barely slowing as we cascade down the broken stairs and out onto the street outside. The bike gathers speed as we head north towards Kensington Gardens.
The wind has gone. London’s weather is inclement, but these abrupt shifts are ridiculous.
Perched on the back of the bike, I gasp. Once-familiar streets look alien. Giant oaks tower above us, silent sentinels whose hulking branches form an expansive canopy, dwarfing the buildings below and making the road ahead darker and more ominous. Flowers bloom in an orderly chaos below the trees, in blues, pinks, yellows and oranges. Even through the helmet, the air is dense with the succulent fragrance of blossoms.
London never smelled so good.
The buildings are kind of the same as they should be; they’re a similar shape and height, but it’s as if the concrete and steel have been carefully taken out and replaced with smoothed stones and polished woods. Thick glass, the kind that distorts and takes on a green tinge, is in every window. Celtic symbols adorn the doors.
Beneath the lichen and ivy covering the buildings and framing every window are scars of war. Chipped walls and broken roofs surround us. Every so often, a building has been smashed beyond repair, leaving nothing but a pile of rubble. The Albert Hall’s domed roof is gone. Through its majestic arch entrance, I see long grass and shrubbery claiming it. The roads are cratered with potholes, which Jules expertly swerves to avoid.
At this time of the day the London streets should be teeming with shoppers and workers on their lunch breaks. But every street we pass is deserted. Or at least, they become deserted as we approach. I catch glimpses of people in twos and threes scurrying like mice down alleys and into buildings as we approach. Even from a distance, the people look tired and desperate. Doors shut quietly as we go by. Curtains are drawn. Blinds are pulled. And yet, I swear we’re being watched. I can sense eyes on me. But it feels different from the man in the leather kilt and jacket who was staring at me at the V&A. These eyes are looking at me. The man was looking into me.
I don’t have a clue who that man is and what he wants. And I really hope I never find out.
Closer to Kensington Gardens, my reality is officially knocked sideways. Again.
Draped from the top of a hotel – or at least, what used to be a hotel – near Kensington Palace is a huge painting of a girl who bears a striking resemblance to me.
More than a resemblance. It is me. My eyes, my face, my hair.
For a moment, the strangeness of this world sinks into the background as I stare, agog, at my face plastered on the side of a building.
In the banner, I’m looking straight ahead, defiant, strong, but with the faintest of smiles on my face. I am groomed to perfection. It’s something you’d expect to see in North Korea or on one of those banners they hang outside the front of museums advertising the latest exhibition. It’s glossy and new, completely at odds with the devastated streets and buildings around us. Under the portrait, written in huge bold letters, are the words, ‘THE RESTORATION’.
Restoration? Who do these people think I am?
How they were able to paint my portrait, I have no idea. I’ve never posed for a portrait, or even had a photo like that taken. This girl must be my twin – no, my doppelganger. Has Jules mistaken me for her?
Or else it’s a parallel universe. Maybe those physicists are right – the ones who claim that the universe splits when we make choices. That the choices we make take shape, while the other choices branch off into some other version of reality. But if this is another version of me and some of my choices have branched off into this reality, how did London – my London – come to look like a bombsite?
Jules revs the bike as we thread between two pillars. Atop one sits a stone unicorn. I tighten my grip on her. I don’t like being this close to anyone – certainly not a stranger – but it’s either that or fly off the back of the bike.
Kensington Palace doesn’t look how it’s supposed to either. The magisterial red-brick building still commands respect but it’s dwarfed by the trees and flowers in the surrounding gardens. Guards, dressed the same as Jules, stand shoulder to shoulder around the perimeter, parting with mechanical precision as we approach. We speed through the gates and towards the main entrance. Jules swings us up the pebble driveway and I see more portraits of the girl who is the spitting image of me. There are two massive banners unfurled on either side of the main entrance. Under these portraits is written: ‘SHE IS COMING’.
We screech to a halt in front of the palace, loose gravel flying up around us. Jules kills the engine and dismounts in one fluid movement, lifting her leg over the fuel tank. More guards ring the palace. It’s free of the damage that’s hit the rest of London. The building is neat and the grounds manicured. I clamber off the bike and try not to look at the banners. They’re freaking me out.
‘Isn’t this William and Kate’s house?’ I say to Jules as she removes her helmet and hangs it on her handlebars.
‘I’m sorry, Your Highness, I’m not familiar with either William or Kate,’ she says, as uncertainty reigns on her face. ‘But I can make enquiries.’
‘What rock have you been liv—’ I say, but trail off as I get the strangest feeling that I’ve been here before. I have stood right here. I have no conscious memory of it, just the unshakable knowledge that I’ve been in this exact spot before.
For a moment I consider the possibility that the person on the banners is me after all. But I immediately dismiss the thought; my confusion is probably the result of the explosion back at the V&A. Maybe the trauma has reset my emotional state to my last strong response, which was the deja vu I felt when I saw the Luck of Edenhall. I’ve never even been in the grounds of Kensington Palace before. Not even for a school excursion. The schools I went to didn’t do excursions. And I’m pretty sure this part of the palace would not be open to the general public anyway.
Jules starts apologising and reprimanding herself for
putting me in danger back at the V&A.
‘… tender my resignation immediately, Your Highness,’ I hear her say.
I look at her in surprise. Her brown eyes are a mixture of fear and remorse. ‘What?’
‘I put Your Highness in danger. The Chancellor … If he hears about … No, no, I must be disciplined and resign.’
‘You didn’t put me in danger,’ I say. ‘You got me out of it. You’re fine, I’m fine, end of story.’
If she thinks she’s in trouble over some ravens and rotten freaky things, how much trouble is she going to be in when it’s discovered that she’s wasted her time rescuing a nobody when she should, presumably, be looking after ‘Her Highness’?
Jules stares at me in disbelief. ‘But, that would … that would breach security protocols. Strictly out of … out of the … No, no, there must be consequences.’
I don’t want her to lose her job because of me. And besides, she saved me from those creatures, so I owe her. Sure, she thought she was saving someone else, but she was the one who got those flying rodents and rotting corpses off me. And I might need a friend, or at least someone who’s friendly, when this Chancellor person realises I’m not the girl they’re after.
I try another approach to get her to calm down. ‘I’m “Your Highness”, right?’
Jules nods emphatically.
‘So, if I say you have to do something, that means you have to do it. Right?’
She nods again, this time less certainly.
‘Okay. I command you to not resign.’
‘But, I —’
‘Uh-uh,’ I say, starting to enjoy issuing a decree for what I’m sure will be the first and last time. ‘First Officer Jules of the - um, what was it again?’
‘Protectorate, Your Highness.’
‘First Officer Jules of the Protectorate, I command you to retain your position and put this, um, situation behind you.’
‘As you wish, Your Highness. Thank you, Your Highness,’ Jules says, relief creeping into her features. Whoever she thinks I am apparently isn’t the sort of person who shows mercy. ‘We must go now.’ She straightens up and ushers me through the entrance. ‘He will be waiting for us.’
