Six

FOR EMILIA, MY DOROTHY

I am so fortunate to have had so many generous, brilliant people help, guide, and advise me while writing this book. Thank you RÅ«ta Rimas, Tina Wexler, Stephanie Thwaites, Claire Nozieres, Emma Herdman, Joanna McCracken, Laura McCuaig, Becky Allin, Michela Ciardi, Alex O'Brien, Tony Keefer, Freya Latimer, Alice Mowbray, Kari Lia Sim, Candy Seagraves, Amanda Nixon, Jessie O'Regan, Mary Jane Vaughan, Peter O'Regan, Kathy & Federico Meira, and Mark Johnson.

And also a huge thank-you to the following for inspiring me more than they could ever know: Anya & Felix Donald, Oliver McMenamin, Annachiara & Federico Ciardi, Jacob & Emilia Sim, Spencer Roberts, Alejandro & Nicolas Reyes, Gracie & Elliot Meads, Toby Johnson, Lucia Meira, and, of course, Emilia Johnson—for the reward charts that kept me writing, and the invitations into an invisible world far more incredible than anything I could have ever dreamed up myself.

He had always wondered what it would feel like.

Would it hurt?

Would he know what was happening?

Ironically, Dr. Banks could have explained—in minute detail—the science behind the procedure. He could have listed every single step required to destroy a human body cell by cell in one place, and then reverse the process in another. And yet—until now—he'd have been unable to answer these most simple of questions.

So far—he was discovering—it didn't hurt at all. And yes, he knew exactly what was happening, though his thoughts were disconnected and transitory—clear for a brief moment before being snatched back into the folds of a dreamlike fog.

The gentle tingling of pins and needles in his legs became noticeable only when it began to contract, pooling in strength as the area of focus narrowed in at the center of his left shinbone and then started to move upward. His kneecap began to vibrate.

A familiar checklist appeared in Dr. Banks's mind.
The beginning of Stage Eight,
he thought—the reconstruction of detail. It was almost over.

The sensation—now a deep shiver—began to travel slowly around his body—a body that, at this moment, only half existed.

It was uncomfortable, but not painful.

Dr. Banks felt the vibrations move up his spine, climbing his vertebrae one by one, like rungs of a ladder. On reaching the base of his neck, the shiver began to spread out across his shoulders, and a wave of overwhelming panic engulfed him.

Something was very wrong.

Before Dr. Banks could work out what that something was, the fear was gone and the thought vanished from his consciousness.

The sensation continued to travel upward as his body was rebuilt piece by piece: his jaw, lips, cheeks, then nose.

Another wave of anxiety hit him: there was something he was forgetting. Something urgent.

His left eyelid twitched. Orange-white rectangles appeared, trapped behind his eyelids. His vision was returning. The rectangles bounced in and out of sight as his eyelids began to twitch with increasing violence and then, with the immediacy of somebody clicking their fingers, everything stopped. The humming surrounding him disappeared and the vibrations ceased.

His eyes snapped open.

Dr. Banks lay completely still on what felt like a padded table, staring upward and waiting as his eyes adjusted to the low ultraviolet light. His sight sharpened, and the black lines separating the dark gray ceiling tiles above him came into focus, but his head still felt as if it were stuffed full of cotton wool. It was the same confusion and grogginess he felt when his alarm clock woke him from a deep sleep. Except that he was almost certain he wasn't asleep. And he definitely wasn't at home in his bed. From what he could see, by flicking his eyes around the enclosed space, he appeared to be in a small square room with plain black walls. There were no pictures, no signs. Nothing except the table he was lying on and now, himself.

And . . . And . . . What
was
that?

Dr. Banks stared at a turquoise leather handbag sitting in the corner of the room and wondered if he was imagining things.

He squeezed his eyes closed and opened them again. It was still there.

Where was he?

The humming sound suddenly reappeared and the shivering feeling returned, deeper this time, on the exact same spot on either side of his body—just below his elbows. He turned his attention to his right hand.

It was only then that he noticed it wasn't there. Yet.

Dr. Banks stared at his elbow—the point at which his arm currently stopped—and watched as his lower arm began to slowly materialize. Atom to atom, molecule to molecule, linking together like tiny building bricks until the arm began to taper for his wrist and then widen again for his palm, then fingers.

Finally the sensation ceased. He lifted his newly formed hand to his face and bent each finger in turn, then ran his eyes over the deeply etched lines on his palm and down to his wrist. A wrist, he realized in horror, that looked very different from how it should look.

And
that
was when he remembered.

His mind suddenly clear, Dr. Banks felt his heart rate shoot up and his breathing quicken.

Without thinking about what he was doing, he raised his other hand and began to frantically press on both sides of his right wrist.

“Parker!” he cried. “Emma!”

Nothing. He sat bolt upright on the table and pressed down harder.

“Answer me!”

He was still calling out, his face now dripping with sweat, when the wall in front of him slid open with a loud
whoosh
, and a blinding white light flooded the room.

For a moment, as his eyes adjusted to the light, Dr. Banks continued to press down on his wrist and shout, panic overriding any sense of logic. It was only when the view of the adjoining room came into focus that he stopped.

The first thing Dr. Banks saw—before the people dressed in purple or the view from the window in the background—was the sign on the wall.

Three letters made of solid gold.

Three letters that speared him with the greatest terror he had ever felt.

SIX
.

Parker had been a student at River Creek Middle School in Upstate New York for only five days, but he already knew that he hated it. It wasn't just that he missed his school and friends back in England, or the farmhouse he had grown up in, or even that he had been forced to move less than an hour away from where his mother had died. Mostly, he thought, as he sat at his desk listening to the whispers around him, it was that he had never felt so alone.

Parker watched as Jenna skipped to the front of the class. She twirled around, sending her two brown plaits flying out on either side of her head, then looked at her friend in the front row and giggled.

“Whenever you're ready,” said Mrs. Ford.

Mrs. Ford clasped her hands and leaned over her desk, beaming as if
this
was the presentation she had been waiting for. It would have been more believable if she hadn't done exactly the same before every one of the twenty-two presentations that Parker and his classmates had already sat through. He wondered if Mrs. Ford would perform the same gesture for the twenty-third presentation: his. He was hoping not to find out, at least not today.

Jenna gave a small cough, giggled again, then began to read from the single handwritten piece of paper in her hand.

“The person I admire most is Missy May. . . .”

At the mention of another celebrity's name, Parker's heart sank. He looked up at the clock. Eight minutes left.

“I think she's an amazing singer and role model for girls my age. Her songs are amazing and she never stops smiling, even though she has to smile for photographers all day. . . .”

Parker's eyes followed the red second hand as it moved, painfully slowly, around the face of the clock.

“My favorite song is ‘Happy La La Land.' The lyrics are amazing. . . .”

If Jenna could just keep repeating the word
amazing
for five more minutes, thought Parker, he would be able to go home and rewrite his presentation before their next class.

The funny thing was, of all the assignments he had been given so far, this one had been the one he had been least bothered about. Back at his old school in England, he had been assigned the exact same piece of work. Parker had written down as much of his previous talk as he could remember, added a few extra details to bring it up-to-date, put it in his bag, and thought nothing more of it. But now almost the entire class had delivered their presentations, and so far every single one had been about a celebrity. He knew it was a petty thing to worry about, and it wouldn't have bothered him back in his old school, but it was just that after having been completely ignored the entire week, he didn't want the first time he drew attention to himself to be for the wrong reason.

“And that is why I admire the
amazing
Missy May. Thank you for listening.”

Parker's head snapped up. She was
finished
?
That can't have been more than two minutes,
he thought. He looked up at the clock and saw that he was right.

“Great job, Jenna. Maybe a little short on time and facts but excellent delivery,” said Mrs. Ford. Jenna grinned and skipped back to her seat and to a smattering of weary clapping.

“We have time for one more.”

Oh no,
thought Parker. He bowed his head low and slid down as far into his chair as he could without falling to the floor.

There was a brief pause, and then he heard Mrs. Ford asking somebody what was the name of the new boy at the back. There was no answer.

From the corner of his eye he saw Mrs. Ford making her way toward him. He waited until she stopped at his desk and only then, reluctantly, did Parker look up.

“Parker? It's your turn,” said Mrs. Ford.

Parker hesitated. He wondered whether if he explained that he really didn't want to do it, she would let him off. Before he had a chance to ask, however, Mrs. Ford leaned down.

“Did you do the assignment?”

Parker nodded. “But, I, um—I don't think I properly understood what we were meant to do. Would it be okay if I did it next week?”

Mrs. Ford didn't seem to have heard him, and then he realized why: she was too busy reading the paper on his desk. He quickly put his hand out to cover it, but it was too late.

“I don't see what the problem is; it looks wonderful!”

Parker could feel the eyes of the whole class on him. He lowered his voice.

“It's not about a famous person.”

Mrs. Ford gave a small laugh. “Oh, honey, that's absolutely fine. Now come on, up you get.”

Parker grimaced. He slid the paper off his desk and walked slowly to face the class. For the first time during class, the room was completely silent. Everybody, Parker realized with a sinking feeling, was watching him attentively—curious to find out about the new student, he supposed.

Mrs. Ford was already back at her chair, hands clasped and smiling once again. She gave him a nod, and Parker, shoulders hunched and looking down, began to talk.

“The person I admire most is my father—”

“A little louder, Parker. We can't hear a word you're saying,” interrupted Mrs. Ford.

Parker took a deep breath and started again, still looking down, but this time in a louder voice.