I awake uncomfortably the next morning, feeling too warm with Lara's arm draped across my chest. I groan and slide out from under her, tiptoeing across the room and pulling my cleanest tunic on over my head. I am attempting to tie my hair back with a length of leather when I hear a soft sound. Lara has her head propped up with her arm on the mattress, regarding me.

"Off so early?" she mumbles sleepily, rubbing her eyes.

I walk back to the bed, sinking down next to her and handing over the strip of leather. She takes it from me and sits up, gently working my hair free of knots with her fingers.

"It isn't that early," I tease, "For those of us not accustomed to staying out all night."

"I suppose I'll have to get used to it." She yawns. "Gods, Kay, when was the last time you brushed this mess? You could have a whole colony living in here, for all you know."

"I've been busy."

"A lady is never too busy for a basic beauty routine," she scolds.

"Stop." I sigh. "You're starting to sound just like him."

"Like who?"

I bite my lip, unsure of what I should reveal to her.

"Ahh, yes." She reads my silence. "Your mysterious rebel. What's he like? He sounds handsome."

I laugh. "How can anyone sound handsome?"

"He's rich, isn't he? There is a recipe for attractiveness, if I've ever heard one." She's managed to separate my hair into three sections and is plaiting them together.

"If you think extreme seriousness and arrogance is attractive, then I'm sure you'd love him." I think of Will's squared jaw and thick brows. I suppose some people would consider him good-looking.

"And what else?" she asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Tell me more about him!"

"I don't know." I shift uncomfortably. "He's tall, he used to be a soldier. He's extremely controlling and thinks that he knows everything." I roll my eyes to the ceiling, pre-emptively annoyed at the thought of having to deal with Will's condescending attitude today.

"Sounds like a real piece of work." Lara finishes braiding my hair and ties it off, draping the end over my shoulder.

She watches me from the bed as I rise to fetch my belt. I affix it around my waist, grinning fondly at the sight of her with her brassy locks still messy from sleep.

I secure my knife and pouch in place and go to the window. "I'll see you later."

She offers me a small wave as I step outside and lift myself onto the roof. I have decided to forgo grabbing food at the market today, figuring I can eat whatever Will has lying around.

I make excellent time moving toward the centre of the City. The thought of Lara safe and secure in my bed with enough coins to keep us both fed inspires lightness in my limbs and I clear the alleyways effortlessly. In less than ten minutes, I land on the roof of Will's flat, taking a moment to stretch my arms over my head, basking in the warmth of the morning sun. I walk to the side of the building and lower myself down to the window, sticking my head inside in time to see Will cross in front of me, shirtless, rubbing his damp head with a towel.

I catch sight of his back and nearly choke on my inhale.

The taut skin is riddled with dozens of ugly, jagged scars. Some look years old and others are newer, standing out brightly from his tan. The marks stretch from his shoulders down the length of his back, disappearing into the waistband of his trousers.

"Good morning," he greets me before I can find my voice.

"Hi," I say, embarrassed to be caught staring.

To avoid his gaze, I slip through the window and walk to the kitchen, where I grab a slice of bread left out on the counter. I come back to the main area, my mouth full as I alternate between bites of bread and sips from a flask of water.

"Please, help yourself," he says dryly. He reaches for a shirt draped over the arm of the couch and pulls his arms through the sleeves.

"I will, thank you." I swallow what's left in my mouth, sinking down into the chair opposite the couch; I stretch out my knee.

"Your hair is different today," he says, taking me by surprise. "You look nice."

"Oh. Thanks." I absentmindedly grab the end of my braid and twirl it before I catch sight of my grubby fingernails; I tuck my hands at my sides. Next to Will in his clean linen shirt, I feel dirty and unkempt.

We sit in companionable silence for a few moments while I polish off the last of the bread and wash it down with the water.

"So, what's the lesson for today?" I ask, dusting my hands free of crumbs.

"Your back-story," he says. "Obviously, you can't just turn up at the Palace out of the clear blue sky, so today we are going to establish your lineage." He pokes through the pile of papers on the table, his nimble fingers searching until he extracts a folded piece of parchment. He unrolls the paper and turns it toward me.

I lean over the table and regard a series of names scribbled in old-fashioned cursive, with lines drawn to connect one name to another. There are dates written next to each name.

"It's a family tree," Will explains when my brow arches quizzically at him. "See, here we start with John Cain." He points to the name at the very top of the list, where the dates 17 A.B. and 52 A.B. are written.

"We only started keeping records after the Burn, everything before that was lost." His finger traces the line connecting John Cain to Margot Goode. "So, John married Margot in 43 A.B. and they had three children."

My eyes travel to the three names written below. Gradually, I can make out the growth of an expansive family. Names connecting, producing and dying. Entire lives summed up in dates of birth and death.

Will is pointing at a couple of names near the bottom right of the page. "See here, it says Justine Hunter and Martin Fellows. Those are your parents."

I squint at the cursive writing, reading the date of death as 205 A.B.—four years ago.

"They're dead?" I ask.

"Yes, and technically, so are you." His finger traces a line down to the words Abby Fellows, b.190 A.B., with no date of death mentioned.

"I don't understand." I say.

"Abby Fellows died three years ago, while institutionalized," he explains. "She was orphaned and estranged from the family, but the care facility where she was living informed her one closest living relative of her passing." He gestures to the line connecting Abby's mother to the words Shanyn Hunter b.160 A.B. — d. 207 A.B. "Abby's aunt, my mother."

My eyes find the words Will Cain b.185 A.B.

"So, only your mother knew that Abby had died," I say slowly, looking up at him.

Will sits back on the couch, pulling on the sleeves of his shirt and rolling them up to his elbows. "My mother's mind was already beginning to slip at that point. My father kept her home and limited the amount of contact she had with her friends and family. As she became sicker, she became paranoid that all her thoughts and memories would be lost forever. She would write notes, obsessively. Whenever she thought of a secret or a piece of news, she would write it down immediately and pass me the scraps of paper. I must have had a whole book's worth by the time she died."

He speaks of his memories in a very matter-of-fact manner, which I find both unsettling and fascinating. I am brimming over with curiosity at the secrets Will's mother could have left.

He finishes rolling up one of his sleeves and moves to the other, continuing his speech as though he were discussing a historical event rather than the passing of his mother. "After the funeral, I picked up her messages and began reading through them. One of the more interesting tidbits was that her niece, Abby, was dead. I had only very vague memories of Abby from when we were children. She and her parents moved to the Outer City and we didn't see them after that."

The Outer City is a smaller settlement just outside our City walls. It is ruled over by a snivelling lord and sports a common population that could rival our own. The uneasy sense of peace between our two cities exists largely because of the united front we must present against the savage Wastelanders. If Will's cousin, the unfortunate Abby Fellows, was a member of the Outer City's elite, then I can be sure she enjoyed a life of luxury, however brief.

"What happened to her?" I press.

"Her parents were killed during a raiders' attack and Abby was driven mad from the ordeal. She was committed to a care facility for a year and died by her own hand."

"That is so sad." I can't help but sympathize with this poor girl I never met. Even if she was a courtier, no one should have to witness the violent death of both their parents. It is no wonder that she became imbalanced.

"Sad, yes, but extremely convenient for us." Will's blasé attitude and apparent eagerness while he relates his story is worrying.

I store away this information, along with the fact that mental illness apparently runs in his family, for later analysis. This rich doctor/soldier/revolutionary having a screw loose would certainly explain a lot.

"Since no one was in contact with Abby, there will be no one questioning you when you turn up claiming to be her." He looks triumphant at the revelation. "We will simply say that you are my cousin, Abby Fellows, returned to the City." He leans back and lifts his leg so that his ankle rests on the opposite knee.

"That is convenient," I say, carefully. "But don't you think the King will have a problem with your mentally unstable cousin hanging about his daughter?"

"Yes, well, we will have to fudge some details on that point," he concedes. "We'll say you were away at the Outer City Academy, studying something-or-other. Abby's family was estranged from most of society; I doubt anyone knows where she was for those years after her parents died."

"I hope they don't." Internally, I admit his plan isn't half-bad. I rub my chin, thinking. "Now, I haven't been blessed with your vast knowledge of royal practices, but I am fairly certain you have to be pretty tight with the monarchy in order to waltz into the inner circle."

He grins. "Indeed, you do. I wouldn't say that myself and the King are particularly close, but my father used to be the King's chief physician. That, coupled with your natural charm and beauty, ought to be enough to get you in."

For a moment, I am stuck on his use of the phrase "charm and beauty" before my mind kicks back into gear and I realize that the disgusting man I pulled off the maid was the chief physician to the King.

"What?" Will asks.

"I didn't say anything."

"Your nose wrinkled. If this is another judgment toward me being a privileged courtier, that's fine, but you really should learn not to show so much expression. It's going to blow your cover before you get one foot through the gate."

I quickly relax my face, annoyed that I showed my distaste. Normally, I pride myself on being able to disguise my emotions.

"It's nothing. I was just wondering if we need to worry about your father seeing me traipsing around inside the Palace." I think back to Dr. Cain's pinched, furious expression when I threatened him.

"You don't need to worry about that." Will waves away my concern. "When I took over my father's role as Palace physician, I also saw to it that he was offered a cushy new opportunity in the Outer City. We won't be seeing him around."

"I hope not. I only had one encounter with him, but it was none too... pleasant." This time I manage to keep my face impassive.

"You don't need to be so gentle; I consider my father to be scum of the lowest calibre," Will says with the same callousness. "There is nothing offensive you can say about him that I haven't said to his face a thousand times."

"I'm sorry," I say, feeling awkward.

He sighs, running his hand over his head. "No, I'm sorry. I'm giving you a lot of unpleasant information about my family because I want you to have a thorough and honest back-story for your role."

"It's fine. I appreciate it." I give him a small smile.

He smiles back with the corner of his mouth. "With this messy lineage, you probably think I'm a lost cause."

"Oh, without question."

The other side of his mouth lifts up as he leans back over the table. He runs his hands over the family tree, rolling his shoulders to loosen them. "Then I shall count myself lucky that you've chosen to stay. Let's learn all these names, shall we?"