The Fandom(31)

‘Yes,’ Baba says, like she’s addressing a child, ‘and when one flower dies, another blooms in its place.’

His hand flops to his side, dejected. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘That’s the thing about the viola flower, it’s little, but it’s rather special. It contains a scent which turns off the receptors in the nose, making it undetectable for moments of time.’

‘Don’t talk in riddles, old woman,’ Thorn says.

She laughs and dismisses him with a flick of her hand. ‘Leave me with them, and go and figure out this old woman’s riddle.’

He fidgets with his eyepatch, not used to receiving orders. ‘And why would I do that?’

‘Don’t be difficult,’ she says. ‘You forget that I already know you’re going to leave, it’s one of the benefits of being a precog.’

He turns on his heel and marches from the room, his features fighting to hide his annoyance. The door slams behind him and the rush of air stirs the flames – shadows dance across the granite. Baba yawns, her toothless mouth like a baby’s mid-cry. ‘His bark’s worse than his bite.’

‘You sure about that?’ Nate says. ‘He nearly slit my throat.’

‘OK, they’re both pretty bad. He’s been through a lot, but I guess you already know that.’ She gestures around the room. ‘Take a seat, Nate. Make yourself comfy. I need some time with your sister.’

He plonks himself down, missing the cushion but not seeming to care. ‘You’re going to mind blend, aren’t you? This is so cool – do me next.’

She ignores him. ‘Come now, Violet, let me rest my hands on your brow.’

I kneel before her, just like Rose should have done, and once again, I feel that sense of loss. But something more toxic runs beneath – guilt. It should be her, not me, resting her knees on these stone slabs, her dark hair falling forward as she offers her brow. I close my eyes to prevent a giant tear splashing on the ground.

Baba lays her palms on my head like she’s checking an infant’s fever. The anticipated bolt of pain shoots through me, swelling my tissue, cracking my bones. It’s so much worse than the description in the book. I want to scream but it’s like there’s no air in my lungs. I see a knife slicing a peach, the palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, a minidress torn by grabbing hands, Saskia’s hair fanning around her face as Matthew weeps, a stage set hurtling towards me, a girl in a mirror dressed in a tunic.

The pain migrates towards my frontal lobes, intensifying to a single spot between my eyes.

I see Mum . . . Dad . . .

Home.

The pain grows and grows until I teeter on the edge of consciousness. And just when I think I will surely die, when I start to long for the peace of death, it begins to fade. The colours, the feelings, the pain, all leak from my temples, drawn through my skin into the warmth of her palms.

I open my eyes and see only white. I blink several times and realize I’m standing in a snowstorm. I’m about to shout for help, to reach blindly for Baba, suddenly united by our lack of sight, when the snow thins. Only it isn’t snow. It’s thistledown. Swirling, dancing, spiralling through the air like a flock of tiny white birds. The air continues to clear and I see Baba standing beside me. Same doughy skin, same toothless smile, but her back is straight, her legs strong, and her eyes finally open to reveal two apple-green irises. She inhales deeply through her brand-new nostrils. ‘That’s better,’ she whispers to the air.

I slowly spin, taking in my surroundings. We stand in the Coliseum. High stone walls dotted with gun towers. To the front, a wooden stage displays nine hungry ropes. I know that on one side rests London, broken and grey, and on the other stretches the Pastures, fresh and green. Just like in canon. Just like earlier today. Yet it seems so different – empty and still, like a playing field at night. And I feel strangely calm. The sky looks clear and the air tastes delicious, fresh – lemony, perhaps.

I find myself inhaling too. ‘How did we get here?’

‘We’re in your mind, dear. I thought it apt to visit the Coliseum, the place where it all started.’ She laughs and catches a piece of thistledown. ‘Bet you feel like Dorothy right now?’

I nod.

She releases the thistledown back into the air as though freeing a dragonfly. ‘There’s no place like home . . . There’s no place like home.’

The word home brings tears to my eyes, hot and fast.

She cups my face and dries my cheeks with her thumbs. ‘But the thing is, your arrival rather knocked our story off-track. Rose wasn’t meant to die, she was meant to infiltrate the manor and fall in love with Willow. A love so strong and pure it transcended the Imp–Gem divide, and eventually reunited mankind as one. But you know this, don’t you?’

I try to nod but she holds my face stationary.

‘And some stories simply need to unfold,’ she says. ‘They need to reach their beautiful climax, existing almost like a life cycle, an entity in their own right.’

‘I – I don’t understand.’

‘Don’t you feel it, Violet? Our story – the canon, you call it – pulling you back in, dragging you along. It’s almost impossible to resist, is it not?’

I think of the two pieces of thread, running in parallel, twisting together, and I nod.