I hardly sleep at all, and for the most part, I stare at the clock ticking, almost tauntingly, on Charlie's spare room's nightstand. I don't consider going downstairs, or for a walk though, because for most of the night, the sound of Asher sleeping soundly next to me, is enough of a distraction.

I listen carefully to his breathing and his repetitive heartbeat and take comfort that for right now, in this little room, in some undisclosed location in Paris, his heartbeat is reserved for only me. I try not to think about how hurt he's going to be, when he wakes up and I'm not there, because I've disappeared to go head to head with his mother.

His mother.

Around three in the morning, I become grateful that I can't sleep, because it gives me some time to try and wrap my head around the whole day. Yesterday, Charlie and I were so sure that we could end this, but for some reason, tonight, I worry that ending it all, would end everything else too.

No matter what he says, I can't shake the nagging feeling that I'm preparing myself to take more of Asher's family away from him, and hurt him a hundred times more. I can't seem to find a future, where he doesn't resent me for this. I run a finger up and down his arm lightly so I don't wake him, but treasure these fleeting moments alone with him.

No one bothered us last night, after Asher came upstairs. We didn't talk much, there wasn't much else either of us could find to say. I couldn't think of another way to apologise, and he couldn't find another way to express that I didn't need to. Eventually, emotionally and physically exhausted, we collapsed onto the bed, forgetting that the future king sat downstairs, fully aware of how many rules we had to break just to get to stay here.

At some point, I heard the front door click as Charlie snuck out to go get some items he promised me earlier. He grumbled about his beauty sleep, but I reminded him that I'd arrived here in clothes that were entirely soaked in blood, and I couldn't exactly leave with no shoes, and trousers that were never meant to be red, and eventually he agreed.

I turn my head a little to look over at Asher. He fell asleep a while ago, curling his body away from me while he slept. It's subconscious, of course, but it doesn't make me feel any better. Instead, I sit beside him, my shoulders resting against the headboard, only moving when the throbbing in my back gets too intense.

I allow myself the small pleasure of being near Asher, in case it's the last time. I slot myself just behind him, tucking my head into his shoulder and wrapping an arm around his torso. I wonder for a second, if I'm even allowed to do this, if he would even want me to. But in the middle of deciding whether or not to move, still in the clutches of a deep sleep, he lowers one of his arms and entwines our fingers together, tucking them into his chest, and letting me know that I'm fine to stay exactly where I am.

We lay there in the outer limits of sleep, like a little pair of quotation marks, the air thick with everything we can't say to each other.

Eventually, the peace of being beside Asher means that my brain can briefly slow, and allows me a few precious moments of sleep. After a few hours however, I jolt awake so suddenly that I'm worried I'll wake the sleeping figure next to me. I can't have slept much, because it's still so early that the room is pitch dark.

My brain doesn't catch up with my surroundings, and there's a flash of panic at the strange wallpaper, and even the unfamiliar feeling of having someone in the bed with me. There's a noise like a stumble from the door, and I reach over the side of the bed for some kind of defence.

My hand collides with an object and I fling it towards the door in fear. There's a noise that someone tries to muffle, and the light on the landing is turned on to illuminate Charlie, rubbing his face and cussing me out, quietly so he doesn't disturb everybody, because he's nice and thoughtful that way.

'Why the fuck did you throw a shoe at me?' Charlie whines, dabbing at his lip that's stained deep red and spreading.

'I thought you were an intruder!' I whisper back, shuffling my body slowly away towards the bed's edge and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, 'I panicked!'

'And your first line of defence was an olympic style shoe toss?' He hisses back.

'Well it worked didn't it? You're bleeding.' I snap.

'You'll be bleeding if I tell dad about this.' He points his finger between Asher and I, and I shove him backwards out of the room before he can continue to berate me. He's holding a bag and he opens it to show me the items, 'I got you some clothes, and I've sown the paper clips into the sleeves of your jacket, so try keep it on you as long as you can. If not, there's more in the waistband of your trousers.'

'Did you also sew diamonds into the bodice for me?' I mock him.

'No, we're not the Russians.' He squints, 'There is a blade in your shoe though.'

'Charlie, your whole plan rests on me not escaping.' I point out, 'Why would you give me a razor blade?'

'Worse case scenario.' He suggests, shrugging his shoulder, 'Although in this case, death would probably be worse, and is far more likely.'

'Thank you for your words of encouragement, brother.' I roll my eyes, and disappear into the bathroom to change.

I pull away the clothes I slept in that are still warm, and still smell like Asher and fold them neatly on the top of the toilet seat, as if I'll be coming back for them. It's wishful thinking, and I take my time, enjoying the calm before the storm.

I decide to take a fast shower, not knowing when my next one might be. I relax under the warm water and loop my wet hair around my fingertips, for the first time since the hospital, feeling completely clean. Some dried blood comes away when I gently wash my back, but the pain is reduced with the temperature of the water so it doesn't bother me.

When I step out of the shower, I listen for voices in case I woke anyone, but it's still silent. I wipe away the condensation from the mirror and open the bag that Charlie handed me.

Charlie's bought me a decent outfit, per my instructions. He's bought me a t-shirt that has long sleeves, to keep me as warm as possible, and hopefully, if I'm bound up, the material can protect my wrists from ropeburn. He's bought me trousers that are small enough to hug tightly to me for warmth, whilst still remaining slightly baggy, in case they get wet, and it increases their chances of drying, and reduces the chances I get whatever the human version of soggy is.

This isn't my first rodeo and there's no harm in being prepared.

When I pick up the khaki jacket he's bought me, I can't mark the difference in weight due to his little additions, and feel around in the sleeves so I know where they are for when I need them later on. He's given me little socks, and then thermal ones on top to keep out the cold, topped with boots that are stocky and waterproof, ready for me to run, or stay, whichever I need to do.

I asked for a few more things that he's provided, bobbles and hair slides, and I tuck as many into the bun at the base of my neck as I can, hidden as best as possible. I was going to try to hide a switch knife somewhere, but I had to remind myself that I'm supposed to be captured, so any resistance is pretty futile. Charlie's razor blade is already overkill.

I pick up the strong painkillers from the side and take one too many, more than I'm allowed, considering I not only will I be denied them where I'm going, but the pain is likely to get much, much worse. I splash some water on my face to get rid of the last fades of grogginess, and let out a heated breath.

I survey myself in the mirror, and smile as it occurs to me that it looks like I'm just going hiking. I quite like the idea of taking off into the woods, pitching a tent and waiting for this to all blow itself over. But I did that for six years in London (minus the tent), and it clearly didn't do us any good. This is the only way.

I take a breath and look at myself, one last time.

'Ready.' I nod.

I leave the bathroom to find Charlie waiting silently, and I can tell that being dressed makes this all seem much more real to him, because he's too quiet, and pale. He's got bags under his eyes that suppress exhaustion and a look that I can only describe as complete and utter fear.

He gives me a quick nod, setting off down the stairs away from me. I take the spare second to open the door to Charlie's spare room, and look in on Asher. He's still asleep, his arm stretched out across the covers to hold a person who isn't there anymore. I want to walk over and say goodbye properly, but I can't risk waking him up, so I take one last look at his face, and close the door again.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, the triplets are waiting for me, all in their pyjamas, leaning on one another in support. Their faces are a picture of worry, the same as Charlie's and I'm glad they're going to be here for each other in the morning, and every day after that when I'm gone.

I give them all a tight squeeze, and try not to let my bottom lip wobble. I know it would scare Charlie even more to see me cry, and from the looks of him, he's seconds away from taking my shoes off and sending me back up to bed. We've come this far, and there's no turning back, and so I breathe through my fear and smile for my family.

'Do you remember where you need to go after the taxi drops you off?' Charlie asks me, and Quigley puts a hand on his shoulder when his voice wavers a little.

'Over the river, across the field, two lefts and a right to the corner, and then call.' I repeat back to him, and he nods, handing over the phone that he's kept for me.

'I've put the number into the phone, so you just have to press dial.' He explains, 'It should do its thing after that, but I've written the instructions on the notes page in case it doesn't work. Then you need to-'

'Throw the phone in the river, I remember Charlie.' I reassure him, 'Does the chip work?'

Charlie points to the laptop beside him, and a little red blinking dot shows his house on his street. I nod, trying to find something to say to reassure him. But there's nothing in me other than fear, and so I just smile as best as I can and open Charlie's front door. There's a taxi waiting for me as planned, and I take a last good look at them.

'Make sure dad finds them, won't you?' I say to my brother, and he looks down with his solemn smile.

'I remember, Marzia.' He confirms, sarcastically mocking me in a way that's not intended to be mean.

Neither of us mention what day today is. None of us dare say it out loud. Fate has brought the day crashing back down to us. It's New Years Eve. It's the worst day of the year for us, for anyone who knew Christopher. I try not to let myself think about the fact that six years ago tonight, I tried to pump Christopher's heart for him, to an end that came all too fast for him.

The irony is too painful to voice, so neither of us do.

'Charlie,' I pause, rooting around in my pocket to find what I'm looking for, 'I want you to have this.'

Charlie holds out his hand, frowning down into his palm as I pass him my rosary. I know, long ago, that he had one of his own. I don't know if he still has it, but I know I can't take mine with me, and if anyone is responsible for holding a candle in the window for me, and praying for my safe return, it's Charlie.

He shakes his head slightly, 'Marzia, I don't believe-'

'It doesn't matter.' I tell him, closing his hand around the beads that have always kept me going, 'To me, this represents our brother, it tells me that I'm going to see him again one day. This keeps me close to Chris. If that doesn't work for you, then that's fine, I don't need it to.'

'I don't understand.' He struggles his words through his hoarse throat.

'It doesn't matter to me if you don't believe what I believe, or know what this rosary means to me.' I tell him softly, 'This reminds me of Chris. Let this remind you of me.'

He nods, because he knows that there's nothing else he can say without crying. I know this, because I'm feeling exactly the same. WIth the final breath I have to spare, I smile at my family and wish a silent goodbye to Christopher, and his life in Charlie's hand.

'I'll see you soon.' I manage, trying to avoid looking at the tears in Zoë's eyes.

They walk towards the door to watch me go, as I walk down the pathway and into the taxi. The man is friendly, and I give him the instructions as I settle myself into the back seat. I close my eyes, holding back the lump in my throat as the car wheels slowly begin to move.

Then, there's a loud noise from the house, and I turn back to see Asher pushing his way through my friends, and my brother, bursting out into the night after me. He's not wearing any shoes, but he throws his frame into the road behind the taxi, running until it becomes too far, leaving him standing helplessly as he watches us drive away.

He looks back at my brother, who stays deadly still. I turn around in my seat and watch him through the back window, getting smaller and smaller. He runs a hand through his hair, and then lets it drop and I can't say I've ever seen the look on his face seem so broken before.

He mouths something that I can't make out and takes a few more pointless steps after me. I close my eyes, and turn around, feeling a crack forming deeply across my heart. I clutch my chest and tuck my knees close to my body, praying for a relief from the ache that the painkillers can't reach.

'Are you okay?' The taxi driver asks, looking at me in his rear view mirror, 'Do we need to turn back?'

'No.' I straighten out my spine, sitting myself up and filling my lungs with as much air as possible. I look at him, and flash a smile, 'No turning back now.'

*

It's almost daylight when the taxi drops me off, on a street corner that Charlie told me. I hand over the cash that was pre-packed in my pocket, and even though it's a little extra, I let him keep it, mainly because I can't be found with any money on me, and secondly because he didn't ask me where I was heading. He didn't say much of anything, and I appreciated the quiet.

I step out into the cold Alanian night, and revel in being back in my own country, even if the freedom is much short lived. The taxi drives off, and the street becomes eerily silent. I look around me for a minute, up at the buildings, and see an apartment block not too far away. I daydream for a second about buzzing one of the apartments, and wandering up, asking for a phone, and calling my mum to come and pick me up, as if I'd been the lonely kid left out at a sleepover.

I tuck my hands inside my pockets and feel the smooth plastic of the cell phone. Luckily, Alania is one of twenty-seven countries that doesn't require a passport to cross over the borders, and so it feels strange standing here, without a bag, or a map, or a fucking clue as to what's about to happen.

I set off walking in the direction I've been replaying in my head for a few hours, taking extra care to watch my footing on the grass through the morning's dim light. The last thing I need right now is a twisted ankle on top of this miniature hike through the Alanian countryside.

I pick my way across the banking, scanning the short horizon for the bridge that Charlie told me about. There's a faint outline in the distance, and I set off in aim of it, making sure that my body is concealed by the dip in the grass. When I reach the wooden structure, I encounter a large sign, warning me not to cross.

I squint in the darkness and read aloud, 'Bridge condemned, deemed unsafe. Please continue to indicated alternative route.'

There's an arrow underneath, instructing me to a bridge a further two miles down the river that will serve as the detour. I scoff out loud, knowing there's no way I have enough time for the alternative path, and there's no way I'd be able to navigate my way back, so I sit for a second with my only two choices; swim across, or brave the bridge.

'Are you kidding?' I hiss to no one, 'The bare minimum for bridges is to be able to get across them. I didn't ask for intricate railings, I didn't ask for wonderful ivory decoration, I really don't expect much from my bridges. But being crossable seems like it would be item number one on the agenda at bridge building classes.'

After a minute of angrily cussing out my stupid brother, who promised his plan had all the kinks worked out, I duck underneath the sign and set my first foot on the bridge. I don't know how long this thing has been condemned, but given that the morning mildew seeps out of the wood with every step I take, I'm going to assume a fair while.

I keep a tight hold of the sides before each new step, in case a board decides to give way. I'm almost halfway when the first piece of wood breaks off, and I breathe through the panic of the loud noise and the drop in my stomach, before I readjust my feet and carry on.

My only slight oversight comes at the other end of the bridge, when the entrance, too far away from the other side for me to have seen in the dark, is boarded up with slats, that won't come away no matter how much I kick them. With the force of my tiny body jumping up and down to try and karate kick my freedom, I notice the extreme thinning of the boards beneath my feet, and flick a strand of hair away from my face in irritation.

You'd think with all these hair grips in my hair that there wouldn't be any fly aways, but alas, here we are.

I steady my feet in between the slats and push myself up, throwing one leg up and over. Finally, a string of mistakes comes charging up behind me, and the wood aches and groans and splits under my weight, causing me to tumble head first onto the concrete. My chin is the first to hit, and my leg stays upright for a minute, caught in between planks, before it comes crunching down onto the stone steps a second later. The wind is knocked from my chest and I lay there, indulging the pain for as long as I feel like I can let it.

I reach up and touch my chin, and it's bleeding, seemingly quite a lot, because my t-shirt is already damp. My back throbs with the unusual contortion, and I'm only glad there's no longer sharp metal in there to further complicate things. My stitches stretch, but they hold, and from what I can tell, they stay mainly dry. I push myself up, only to find a gash in my shin.

I allow myself the luxury of the torch from the phone to inspect the wound. It's only a flesh wound, but it's still bleeding onto the concrete, and it's ripped the new trousers. There goes Charlie's hopes at a full refund.

I smile a little, knowing that if Asher were here, he'd tell me that only I could hurt myself on the way to being hurt.

I'm comforted by the thought of him, and so I run through some of our memories in my head as I waddle my way across the field in front of me, occasionally reaching up to wipe away the blood from my chin that tickles as it runs down my neck. I hop over the wall at the edge of the field, and prepare myself for another long walk. I hum to myself whenever I'm going downhill, and have enough oxygen and think about how my cuts will probably help my story when I arrive.

I suggested to Charlie that someone punch me in the face yesterday, and he said as much as he would love to, he couldn't bring himself to jam a scalpel into my neck, and punch my lights out all in one day, so he didn't. I dropped in the idea of Klaus assisting, but he told me to shut my mouth only a millisecond after I'd first opened it.

By the time I reach the end of the countryside, my chin has mostly clotted and I've finished humming every melody to Frank Sinatra that I can remember, to keep myself calm. When I see the blinking of street lights in the distance, the fear begins to bubble up again, and I have to keep quiet in case anyone hears me.

It would sure be a shame to be locked up in a mental hospital before I even made it to be locked up somewhere else.

The irony of the whole morning is enough to make me laugh, but, feeling self conscious, I don't do that either.

I check the time, and realise I'm running a little late, and so I jog the rest of the way, which also will probably help me out for my acting scene, when the time comes. I repeat the street name Charlie gave me over and over in my head, even though it's so ingrained, that I couldn't forget it if I tried.

Rue De Caire. Rue De Caire. Rue De Caire.

I see the charred remains of the warehouse in the distance, and push down the memories that come flooding back, the fire, Asher's grandfather, and Christopher.

He's why we're doing this, this is all for Christopher, I remind myself. The last hurdle of this whole painful existence, all for you Chris.

I always wondered why no one had ever done anything with the space where the warehouse used to be. I know it was the place of torture of the royal family, and this was reported in the papers for a few weeks afterwards, but it still has a beautiful view of the countryside, and it's mainly excluded from the main road, and I think it could make a beautiful patch of land, if you could get past the scorch marks on the pavement.

I take a street I wasn't told to, just because I'm not sure I can walk right past where we were. I've never gone back, and even though it's six years later, the smell of burning, the sound of contorting metal, and that sickly sweet smile of Dimitrius Van Doren feels inescapable.

I worry about deviating from Charlie's plan, but given that he didn't think to check if a bridge wasn't still fully functional, I'd say improvising hasn't been too much of an issue so far.

Although my bleeding shin might disagree with me.

I take the turnings that Charlie hammered into my brain, and eventually I come to the street corner, with the winding river flowing calmly alongside me. I walk over to the streetlamp right on the end of the street, and pull out the phone, holding it up and waving it around wildly, trying to reach some signal.

When there's a little beep, I pull the phone down to my chest and open the call app, where Charlie's right - the number is all loaded up for me. I press the hash button before calling, and just as he told me it would, the number rings straight through to voicemail. I hold the phone to my ear quickly, waiting a second for the automated message to finish running through.

After a brief pause, the line clicks and my father's head of security, Gamache Ferrus' voice comes wafting down the receiver. It's an average few sentences of information, after which he cheerfully asks for a message to be left after the beep.

The loud beep rings out into my ear and I begin to breathe heavily, remembering that I would probably have run here, if this weren't all an act. A year ago, Charlie heard a rumour that Gamache Ferrus' phone had been successfully tapped by The Court. I didn't mention it to Loki at the time, but seemingly, if I had, he would have confirmed it.

From what he's run past me these last few days, Charlie contacted Emilio with the threat and the ACS switched out his number. Charlie however, being the all-knowing boy that he is (or just hoping for some kind of lucky break) took over the number, and has been monitoring it, passing through pointless and incorrect information ever since.

To me, it all feels like a game, played in a spider's web of lies, secrets and agencies that hated one another.

I don't know if Charlie's whole plan was concrete back then, or whether he just hoped one day this might help, but either way there's only one thing spinning around my mind as I pant down the phone in a Grammy-award-winning panic. My voice is being listened to by the very people who want to kill me, and my brother, sitting by his laptop, who plans to forward the voicemail over to Gamache's correct number, as soon as I hang up the phone.

This voicemail is being broadcast like a calling card for everyone who wants to hurt and help me, that now is the time to strike.

'Gamache,' I breathe out, very aware that my heavy breathing is making my head spin, 'It's Marzia. I'm so sorry to call, but I didn't know what else to do.'

I think of The Court now, scrambling into cars to chase me down. Charlie used a secure line to alert them that I was in the area when I left, and it puts me on edge, knowing they could be just around the corner. I have to fight the urge in my legs to run now, knowing that this is the only way. I picture Christopher's face and bite my lip, turning myself around so that I hopefully won't see them coming. I know when they come running, that I won't be able to stop my legs from trying to protect me.

'When Asher and I left the hospital, we thought we were being followed, so we hid.' I pant into the receiver, counting down each second that I stay on the line, 'But there was a car accident, and he was bleeding and I couldn't wake him up, and I panicked. Shit, I think he's, he must be dead - I need someone to come and get me, please.'

The acting is exhausting, and I find myself hoping that everything happens quickly, because I've never been brilliant at the whole fake 'please-kidnap-me' thing, which is hardly a surprise. Before this, in case you hadn't noticed, I'd never tried to be taken. I'm sure I've made this begging-for-help speech a thousand times, but I've never had to do it for no reason before.

I force myself to focus and make my breathing even more rapid.

'I'm on the corner of Rue De Caire, I think - I recognise the warehouse. You need to send someone to come and help me.' I recite, having practiced this with Charlie the day before, 'I'm going to try and hide in the remains, but I need to get rid of this phone. I don't know if I might be being tracked-'

There's a screech of tyres on a road not too far away, and it bounces around the empty street. It's now or never, I remind myself and grip the phone so hard that I'm worried it's going to snap apart in my fingers and all that Charlie will find will be the shattered remains of plastic that ruined everything.

I look at the warehouse, realising that I never knew which direction the van we left in drove, even though it must be meticulously documented in a file somewhere. I wonder if Christopher is watching me now, I wonder if he knows the exact road like the back of his hand. I hate the idea of his soul being trapped in this place without light.

For the first time since I left Charlie's, I let myself indulge in the darkness. The night sky, the overshadowing reach of those charred remains, and the edges of my mind that whisper that tonight might be the last time I see a sky. It might be the last time that I feel wind on my face, or dirt below my feet instead of piled up six feet above.

I listen to the sound of the river and even though I can't move from the spot, I try to imagine the feeling of dipping in my fingers, a cold pain that is jolting, but reminds me how lucky I am that I get to experience the quickening of my breath and the beating of my heart as the icy water runs along my fingertips.

I allow myself for a moment to forget Charlie, to forget Christopher, my parents, my grandparents, my country. I let the reasoning for this plan leave my mind, and I relish in the fleeting feeling of freedom. For a moment, I just let myself feel.

'Listen Gamache, I need you to get a message to my father.' I say into the phone, without thinking it through. My shoulders relax and I allowed my lungs a clean, fresh, deep breath. It's off script, and I can almost see Charlie cussing at me through his laptop, 'I need you to tell him that I love him, and that I'm sorry. Please tell him that. And tell him- tell him that I -'

I take another deep breath, and with the increasing sounds of revving engines, I say the very last thing I need to, to ensure there isn't a sharpshooter locked with me in his cross-hairs. I look upwards, searching for some courage from Christopher and close my eyes.

'Dad, I found Charlie.'

I'm sure I imagined it, but there seems to be a surge in the oncoming attack, a new breath of life for the two-for-one bargain I've just tossed them. Then I turn around and like Charlie told me, I use all the strength I can muster, without using my back too much, to throw the phone into the river. Over the sounds of fast approaching cars, revving engines and the blood beating in my ears, I hear the recognisable splash as the phone hits the water.

I breathe out a warm breath into a cold night, and relish in the knowledge that my part of the plan is done, all I have to do now is sit and wait. I mean, sit and wait in the hands of a murderous woman who wants me dead, but sit and wait nonetheless.

The headlights shine on me and I spin around, trying not to look startled when I see quite how much blood my fall by the bridge has generated, and covered my protective clothing. I hold a hand up to shield my eyes from the bright light, and begin to walk towards the cars, like Charlie suggested, trying to see if they're ACS.

When the first gun appears, I let my face fall, even though I've spent all morning expecting this. I turn on my heel and run. I don't limit my speed even though I probably should. I don't look over my shoulder to see if they're aiming for me, even though I definitely should. I don't know if I'm trying to fake my freedom for them, or whether I just want to hold onto the feeling.

The ground under my feet becomes more unstable, and the grass grows tall enough to tag against my legs. I'm sure there's people behind me, but with the wind whipping past my ears, I can't tell. The dull pain that's been rippling around my spine during my walk over here, bursts into fireworks of burning nerve endings and I yelp out with every second step.

I'm running towards a sun that hasn't yet risen, and we're fast coming up on the river. I can't dive in, without making my clothes irreversibly wet, and I can't stop short and wait for them to catch me up. With a begrudging growl, I lift one foot accidentally in front of the other, and brace myself with my hands as I toss my already broken body to the ground.

Within seconds, there's a knee in the arch of my back, pushing down into the incision, and the all too memorable feeling of the barrel of a gun being pushed into the crown of my head appears. I close my eyes, holding tightly to my imaginary rosary and pray, just in case this very last second, is my very last second.

'Stop!'

There's grass grazing against my face, and I struggle to keep my eyes open against the feeling. The smell of dirt is so strong that it feels like I'm buried in it, and the visualisation sends a shiver down my spine. If they kill me now, is here where they'll bury me?

There's footsteps approaching as I fight, using all of my strength not to shout out in pain, and give them the satisfaction.

'Pull her up.'

My arms are pulled together so my shoulder blades clash, and I have to stumble to keep my knees underneath me so that nothing is pulled from its socket. My hair is falling apart, and strands are hooding my eyes which I can't bat away with my hands. Another agent grabs one of my arms so I'm standing between two men, far taller and stronger than I am. It's been a long time since my body has been held this way, and the discomfort in my joints and fear in my bones seeps back into my soul like an old friend.

I lift my head up, to find a hoard of oncoming Court agents, strolling towards me, dressed from head to toe in black, and walking with the swagger that only comes from knowledge you know you shouldn't have. And also maybe, a princess you know you shouldn't have.

The first one, leading the rest, stands right up against me, using his fingers to push up my chin. He's got dull eyes that appear almost black, and a scar that extends from his eyebrow over to his hairline. He's got muscles so big that they seem to protrude from his face and I wonder how many years of steroids must have contributed to his physique.

'Ain't you pretty.' He growls, low but clear and the only thing that pierces the silence of the early morning.

I've never seen this boy before, but given that he can't look any older than me, I assume that's because he was still experiencing puberty the last time I was captured. I don't know why it's the first time that it occurs to me that The Court has younger members. Of course, I knew about Loki, and as of yesterday Ezekiel, but I at least understood how they'd come to be there.

Loki was there to help me, and Ezekiel was simply fulfilling his birthright. But what did this boy have against my family? What did my country do to this kid, no older than me, to make him decide that hurting me was his only solace? I wish I were in a position to ask him, but given the knife that he presses into my throat, I decide to hold my tongue before I lose it.

The rest of the agents surround me, watching this boy, as though he were in charge. I wonder for a second if this is Ezekiel, but even in the dark, I can tell these aren't his eyes - these aren't Asher's eyes. The way the small crowd moves, in sync, with no footstep or clank of a gun against their uniform, hammers home the reality of what I've put myself into. They're organised, they're united, there's nothing I can do to defend myself.

'What I would give to be the one who ends this.' The boy hisses, with such force that spit from between his panting mouth, lands on my face.

I squint a little, involuntarily at his words. If he can't end this, then who can? Who's in charge?

'Step aside, Titus.'

For the second time since Winter Wonderland back home, there's a voice that sends chills running over my spine. I try not to let my face reflect the mixture of shock and disappointment that my heart radiates throughout my heart. Titus drops the knife from my throat, and steps aside, revealing a boy that yesterday, I considered I might never see again.

'Hello again princess.' Loki grins, stepping forwards.

It's the first time I've seen him in his Court getup. He's kitted out with a bulletproof vest that's barely visible underneath his packed-out jacket. He's wearing big army combat boots, and there's an automatic gun strapped to his chest. I don't know how he has one, considering automatic weapons are illegal in this country, but he, and the rest of his pals have one too.

'You.' I say, finding it to be the only word I can think of that doesn't incriminate the both of us.

No one in The Court of Miracles would believe I'd forgotten the face of one of their very own, who supposedly tortured me all those years ago when I was fourteen. I don't say his name, I don't say anything smart, I just stand there and look at Loki and know what an awful few days we're about to spend together.

'Let's go.' Titus says from beside me, urging the entourage to follow him as he takes a step back towards their hoard of SUV's, scattered across tarmac and grass. Loki stands very still, staring me straight in my eyes. I don't move from glaring at his face, not even when the two men beside me begin to push me forwards.

'Hold on.' Loki says, the corners of his mouth turning up.

'We have to get moving.' Titus pushes.

Loki ignores him, walking forwards so that he's right in front of me. He juts his chin forwards so his nose bumps against mine. He closes his eyes, and runs a hand down the side of my face, with a sickly smile that turns my stomach. His bright green eyes dart like a snake back up to mine.

'Lay her down.' Loki instructs, whispering against my cheek.

While Titus throws up his hands, the two men holding my arms follow his demands without question. I don't know what's happening, before my face is crushed into the damp greenery, and Loki kneels down beside me. I watch as he pulls a knife from his boot, and drags it gently across my face, leaning down so his lips are right by my ear.

'How does this fit into your little plan princess?' He whispers, and my eyebrows dart down in confusion. He leans back up, tossing the knife to one of the men holding me into the earth, 'There's a tracking chip in her neck - cut it out.'

What?

'Wait-' I gasp helplessly.

I try to crane my neck to follow his face as he stands up, but he begins striding away, as the too-often feeling of blade on my skin kicks in, and I scream down into the dirt.

'Toss it in the river.' Loki says over his shoulder, 'Then let's be going, we've got work to do.'

*

It's a long time before I can see again.

There's rough material tied around my head, my eyes to block the light, my mouth to block my screams, and a bandage far too tight around my neck to stem the bleeding from the hack job that was real-life field surgery. I can't see, I can't hear, I can't breathe and I never realised how much the dark scared me before now.

When I was first dragged from the grassy banking, I kept tension in my muscles, resisting the forces that served to pull me, and drag me, and stuff me into a trunk. But on the long drive, the energy bled out of me from the wound in my neck, and as I was tied to a chair, I couldn't even bring myself to moan when the ropes cut against my skin.

Then it was quiet. Not peaceful, nothing feels peaceful. It's like waiting for a pin to drop, when it never will. It's suspended, mid-air, the razor sharp point inches from my chest. The sound is as suffocating as my gag, and with every ache of old wood, scrape of a chair and capturer's cough, I drown in the feeling of the unknown.

I'm locked into this plan, into this moment. I don't have the energy to grieve for my life, which I know is already lost. Instead, I bleed for my father, and for my brother. I bleed for my mother, who will have to bury another child, and I bleed for Ansel, who will never have a memory of two of his siblings, neither see either of them smile.

I keep my mind on Christopher, the only shining light that bursts onto my closed eyelids like flashes. I will lose everything in this room, I'm sure of it - but I will gain back my brother. The pain, the suffering, the fear. I'll bleed down here on earth, but I'll heal up in heaven with him. I repeat his voice in my head, telling me not to be scared.

I'm not scared.

Someone comes up behind me, and even though I can hear his footsteps, my body still jolts in fear and surprise when his hands take hold of my head, and begin to loosen the knots there. The first he undoes is the material lodged so far into my mouth that it scratches my throat. When it falls to my lap, I let my tongue run along my lips, even though it doesn't provide much relief.

When he releases the pressure on my eyes, I blink hard, trying to focus my vision as fast as I can. I couldn't draw when I was twelve, but I can now, and I'm committing every fucker's face to memory and painting their justice with a paintbrush. I let my eyes drop when I realise that I'll never paint again - the focus isn't worth my effort.

The man is still standing behind me by the time I can properly see, tightening the compress on my neck.

I don't know whether he's trying to purposefully restrict my breathing, or whether they're actually trying to keep in my blood, because my knowledge is worth nothing when my life is spread in deep maroon across the floor, but either way, they stop me bleeding out.

I crane my neck to see everything I can from where I'm placed, tied tightly to a chair in the centre of a grand entranceway. I'm too tired to frown, but as my eyes scan my surroundings, I find great difficulty in piecing together the architecture, the portraits, the decrepit, peeling wallpaper, brown by either design or damp, I'm not sure which.

I'm placed in the centre of a large rug, maroon, orange and cream, muted with their age, and the dirt, dust and leaves crushed into their linings. I study the pattern, watching all lines point towards me, the revolving centre of whatever's about to happen to me on this rug. I figure I'm halfway, from the long stretches of detailing, as it spans most of the floor.

There's a sofa beside me, covered with a dust sheet that needs a dust sheet of its own, and a matching chair across, more that well worn, and more than likely propped for whoever plans to make me talk. They're positioned close enough to me that I'm always under a watchful eye, but also parallel to a fire that rages in an abandoned fireplace that sits on the breastplate of the room.

I move my eyes up, studying the stairs that begin to my left and curve upwards, all the way around my head. There's tall wooden arches, and panelling that could rival even the most beautiful of French cathedrals.

I narrow my eyes; French.

The roof above us is collapsed inwards, planks of wood swaying in the wind that serve as a constant guillotine, undoubtedly French. There's sun streaming down in beams, casting shadows from the heavy curtains that surround the smashed windows. It's freezing, and the fire and sun both sit too far away from me to be of any real help.

There's portraits lining the walls, beckoning viewers up the stairs, as they only get more and more grand. The largest two sit either side of an organ on the first floor balcony, their faces interrupted by gashes to the canvas. The wind whips through the barren hall, causing a cacophony of eclectic notes to vibrate against one another in the organ, pipes crashed to the floor with the ferocity of French winters.

Definitely France.

The woodwork on the stairs is rotting and broken, but it's memorable at least. Only the finest wood, only the best for French aristocracy - it's Alanian Black Forest wood. It's old, it predates our woods, it predates our country. This wood used to be French.

Northern France, I'd bet my life.

Up in the rafters, there's more fabric hanging, and I can make out faint lines of a family crest, hidden from my sight by the material that restricts my neck. I squint, but between the sun and the pain, there's nothing my eyes can focus on.

I let my head roll to the side, where most of the portraits reside, blinking away the burning feeling in my corneas. There's areas higher up, where centuries old frames have burst through the balcony, leaving only a darker patch of wallpaper to prove anything was ever there at all. That's the feel of the whole place - something was here once, but hasn't been for a long time since.

I can't recognise any of the faces etched into paint. They're proper, they're families, they're aristocracy, there's no doubt about it. They're smiling in places, these people don't feel like killers. I look at the child, no older than five in the portrait closest to me and I feel the need to apologise for what he's about to have to witness.

'Figured out where we are yet?'

Loki.

I flick my eyes over to the hole in the wall beside me, which he finishes crawling and jumping up through, walking straight over to me, straddling the chair laid out there opposite. I clench my jaw, looking straight at him.

I was stupid, all these years to think this boy was on my side. Maybe once upon a time, he took a liking to my stupid older brother, but during one of these long years, his heart must have turned cold, and he must have felt stone beating there, instead of an opportunity for redemption, a willing to care, an ability to love.

He's got his hair slicked back as if he's dressed himself up, all ready for today. I try not to tut, of course he did - we gave him plenty of fucking warning. My stupid brother rocked up to his house, gave him a phone and asked him to keep in touch. We trusted him. I trusted him.

Whatever's about to happen to me, comes as a direct result of my mistake. My mistake to trust this broken, abandoned, fucked-up little boy.

He's still wearing his getup, covered now by a jumper that blocks out the very same cold that nips at my fingertips, my nose and the tops of my ears. Knowing what I know now, I'd rather I had taken my chance in that river, maybe I could've gotten away. Maybe I'd be home right now.

I don't have the energy to move a muscle in my face, so I simply don't.

'France.' I reply, coldly, half because I'm so full of hate, but partly because it really is very cold.

'More.' He replies, too fast for this conversation to be speared by anyone else but him. I wonder if he practiced this conversation every time I came to his apartment, or he wrote me a letter. I wonder how many times he's played this through, and how many days he's waited for this.

'Northern France.' I shrug as best I can within my restraints.

'Now come on Marzia, you're a smart girl.' He says, turning his head on its side to look at me, 'Where are we?'

'I don't know.' I bite, despite the nagging in my head that wonders if I'm really sure of anything right now.

Loki smiles, chewing down on his lower lip, his eyes glowing in a way I don't ever remember them doing. This is his element, this is his world. I think of him at Winter Wonderland, and in his apartment, and even the night that he broke two of my ribs, wondering if I ever really knew him at all.

I wonder if Christopher ever really knew him. I wonder, if he did, whether he'd have wasted any breath of every breath of his that was precious, talking to someone like Loki.

'This isn't something they teach in private tutoring?' He mocks me. In an unexpected turn of events, I find myself smiling.

'What, how to tell your exact coordinates by the angle of the sun?' I sneer, only vaguely aware that this serves to make him more angry, 'Surprisingly they tend to favour Latin as far more important.'

He nods, shuffling into his seat as if I'm entertaining him. He repeats himself, 'Why Northern France?'

'Why bother asking?' I retort.

'You didn't expect this to be easy did you?' He laughs, and it stings even more than he had the same preparation time I did for this whole ruined idea. I guess my plan didn't involve complete and utter backstabbing from someone I considered an ally, but his did, 'I imagine by the time that we're done with you, you'll have answered many more questions than just this one.'

'Then let this stand as precedence.' I shake my head.

'So regal.' He grins.

'It sort of comes with the trade.' I reply, smoothly.

'Does it? I wouldn't know.' He leans forward, closer to me, 'Do you know why I wouldn't know?'

'Because you were born to a waitress?' I snap. Even though he's now become my killer, I still feel a turn in my stomach using his mother against him. Christopher said her death hurt him a lot. I sit here now, maliciously hoping it still does.

'Ah, there's that infamous ACS research.' He appears unfazed, but I can tell by the slight flick of his tongue that he's getting angrier by the second, 'Anything else you'd like to add?

'Waitress and mistress, right?' I twist the knife, 'And when she didn't fit in with daddy's nobility, I guess her little mistake didn't either?'

I would gesture to him if I could, but my hands are still tied tightly behind my back. He cracks the bones in his neck and looks at me in a way that I can only liken to the stare of a snake, locked on its prey. I shouldn't work him up like this, but if he's going to backstab me, I'm at least going to make sure that I return the favour.

'Now that can't have been in the file.' He says.

'I must have figured that out all by myself.' I snarl.

'See, that's why you've always been my favourite. You notice things, your memory is better than your brothers.' I tighten my hands together behind my back at the mention of my brothers. I don't like the idea that this whole plan could be entirely futile, because Charlie let slip where his house was in Paris yesterday. I don't let myself consider the possibility that he's already dead, 'I'd like to say you'll remember this conversation, but I don't know how much time you'll have to reminisce.'

'You never know. Maybe I know exactly where we are, maybe I know who all these people are.' I look around at the paintings, noticing the way they share the same straight nose and narrow eyes, 'Maybe I know more than you think.'

'Maybe I do, too.'

'Like the chip?' I say, daring to put out the information that he shouldn't have known. I don't trust him, but by the way that he looks around to see if anyone else is listening, maybe he doesn't trust anyone either.

'Lucky guess.'

I squint at him, wondering what he thinks he's playing at. If he'd been playing me this whole time, why would he be trying to hide how he found me, and how he knew Charlie would be tracking me? I'm about to push my luck further, when Titus appears through the hole in the wall beside me, and Loki shuts himself up, fast.

'It's not nice to play with your food Loki.' Titus grins, kneeling beside me. He takes a strand of hair from my face and tucks it behind my ear. I try not to recoil, but I feel the disgust run through me and shoot bumps up all over my skin. I blink away the anger, and clench my jaw.

'She's not my meal.' Loki replies, coldly.

'Then you won't mind if I have a taste.'

He's hardly even finished with his sentence, when his fist clenches beside my ear and knocks my jaw spinning. Fireworks burst across my eyelids and I hold in the wince as I realign my bones, feeling around with my tongue for any broken or bleeding parts. I don't let the pain register on my face, I've known Loki long enough to know that's his favourite part.

And somehow I was still surprised that he turned out to be a shitbag.

'Aren't you at least supposed to ask me a question before you start this?' I roll my head to look at him.

'I hate to break it to you princess, but this ain't your cosy fucking palace.' Titus is getting angry enough that every harsh sound sends spit flying towards me once more, 'You don't make the rules here.'

'I have a question.' Loki interrupts.

Titus looks over at him, slightly confused, but backs slowly away from me anyway. Loki stands up and I loll my head to look at him, as if I couldn't care less that he's pulled a knife from his back pocket and kneeled between my legs. My ankles are tied tightly to the chair legs, and he doesn't touch me, but having him there anyway pushes another wave of fury through me.

'I thought I wasn't your meal.' I try.

'You're not anything to me.' He replies, and for the first time, it frightens me how much I believe him, 'You're no different to any head that I bury up and down those borders you fought so hard for.'

'You had a question for me?' I interrupt him.

'Charlie.'

'A question, Loki.' I repeat, firmly, 'Ask me a question.'

'He's alive.'

'A question!' I shout at him.

Loki takes a long pause, putting one finger under my chin and leaning forwards so he's only inches from me, 'Where is he?'

'Why does it matter?' I whisper, 'You have me, don't you?'

'Your line doesn't end with you, princess.' He shakes his head softly. We're speaking so quietly that Titus can't hear us over the groaning of the wind, and the constant crackle from the fire with which he warms himself.

'And where do you end, huh? What's the finish line for you?' I ask, 'Once I'm dead, once Charlie's dead, my dad - who else has to die before you're done?'

'That's not up to me.' He says smoothly, ignoring the fact that he's fighting a losing battle, for a cause that he's got no stake in. There's no way he wins this, and I wish I could've gotten that through to him before he turned on me. They might have me, but they're not getting my brother, not my dad. I will it into existence, that I will be the very last person that Loki gets the pleasure of hurting.

'Don't you get tired of someone else telling you what to do all the time, little boy?' I hiss.

'That's funny, some people have a tendency to say the same thing about the royal family.' He mutters, speaking so low that I struggle to hear him, and moving his mouth as little as possible, so that Titus cannot infer.

'Is that what this is about?' I half laugh, 'You don't like paying your taxes? Because you know that's nothing to do with us.'

'You think the worst thing this country has done to us, is make us pay taxes?' Loki grins.

'I'm sorry that your father was a deadbeat dad, and I'm sorry that he just so happened to be nobility.' I snap, and I can hear the way that his teeth grind together in frustration that he ever let that secret slip, 'But my brother didn't run out on you before you were born, so why did he have to die for it?'

'It's in your blood.' He snaps, revealing for the first time a little of himself, 'It's in your blood to betray your people.'

I spit out a laugh, and a grin spreads across my face. I raise my voice a little, hoping Titus can hear me clearly.

'You're going to sit there, with a straight face, and talk to me about betrayal?' I revel in the irony.

He doesn't move a muscle, just pauses and watches me, as if trying to communicate something to me. I look at him, wondering how we came to be here, how four years of collaboration could've ended this badly. By the flash of fear on his features, I know that his fellow Court members don't know about our meetings.

They don't know that he's been in contact with me every six months. They don't know that he's known where I've lived for four whole years. They don't know that he found Charlie, or that he helped me. They don't know that he's been my friend. I don't know what doesn't sit right with me, my fear, his secrecy, I don't know. But something deep inside, tells me that they don't know he's still my friend.

Who are you, really? Where is your alliance here Loki?

'Loki, you have a call.'

Titus approaches Loki with a phone that looks older than me, and Loki retreats back outside to answer. Titus follows him, clearly having been waiting for the exact orders that are currently being relayed to my captures. I lean my head back into the hard wood of the chair, letting the pain of Titus' first punch wash over me, reminding me quite what I've gotten myself into.

As much as I'm glad that for now, I'm being left alone, I almost feel like calling Loki back, and telling him I've made a terrible mistake, and that I need him to take me home. I'll abandon my dignity, I'll put aside my rage, just take me home. I breathe out the disappointment that Charlie's plan didn't work after all - no chip, no rescue, and definitely no happy ending in this house.

Maybe Gus was onto something when he suggested a bracelet.

Time ticks by slowly, even though I can't guess which hour I'm being left to slowly freeze in. The sky above me is growing darker, and I wish I had taken more notice of the sun setting last night, committing it to memory, to keep myself from going insane. But I didn't, because I didn't have the time. We didn't have enough time.

I sit, trying to hold back the tears, realising quite how little we planned for this. I know there's no way this ends with me going home, I've had luck, but I've used up far too much as a kid to still have chips left on the table. I want to kick myself for letting this happen, for being this stupid.

I've known for a long time that I wasn't going to grow old, I realised as a child that I had to do all my living as fast as possible, before someone took it away from me, in the same way they did with my big brother. I'm not afraid of dying. But there's one thing that I didn't account for, before I paid the taxi driver and crossed that field.

I'm scared of what my death will do to my brother. I'm scared he'll carry the weight of my death, as his own shortcoming - as his fault.

His plan, his chip, his fault.

The thought tears up a whole new hole in my chest. It's pain that is different to jumper cables or razor blades, a different stab to losing Christopher and a whole new level of aching to reassure Charlie that we'll be okay. It's the sudden flooring realisation that I have consigned my brother to killing me.

I went along with a half-arsed plan, because I was blindsided by the desperation to bring my brother home. My tunnel vision was so paralysing that I couldn't look up in time to see the stop sign, or the car barrelling towards the truck. Now, that mistake is going to cost me my life, and is going to cost Charlie his soul.

An idea.

It hits me right between the eyes. It's blindingly obvious, it's burning bright like the sun, and I can't believe that I've never thought of it before.

It could end everything. I will end me.

I look up at the opening in the ceiling, trying to find a star that burns a little brighter, anything to hook onto my brother's soul. I try to find some light, some reassurance that I'm doing the right thing. It scares me when I realise that the night is dark. I've never seen it so dark.

Except once.

I'm going to die in the same darkness that Christopher did. We're both destined to die on the same day, in the same darkness, with no one watching, no one caring, no willful star to guide us home. The black sky tells me everything I need to know. The moon isn't going to shine, the stars aren't going to show. For me, the sun isn't ever going to rise.

'Okay.' I whisper to the darkness, 'I understand.'

Titus comes strolling back in, followed by Loki, tucking the phone away in his pocket. I take a deep breath, and I watch as Loki zeros in on my face, knowing I'm about to do something stupid that I can't take back. Right now, I don't know if he's my friend, or if he's my enemy, but I don't worry myself with a question I will never know the answer to, and a fate that I cannot change.

He doesn't say anything, his face doesn't move an inch, and maybe I'm imagining it, because I have to believe that I'm not going to die, surrounded by enemies, but I can almost hear him begging me to keep my mouth shut. He's my voice of reason, a voice that I've never had such a good relationship with. Reason can't find me here, not now.

'Get Pandora here.'

Loki locks in on my eyes and I see the distinctive twitch in his neck as he shakes his head at me, an inch of movement for a lifetime of meaning. Titus' mouth falls open slightly. I look at the portraits on the walls - I know these people, they're Van Doren's. Every single one of them, every ancestor that lost out because of my first king. I take a breath, and for a second, I own my fate, in their abandoned family mansion.

I own my fate, I own my life, and I own my death.

'Get Pandora here.' I repeat, 'I want to make a deal.'