After the Poppies

AFTER THE POPPIES

17 April 2056

I first met Nick Nygård when I was nine. The next time I saw him, I was sixteen.

It was the balmy spring of 2056. At the Ancroft School in Bloomsbury, the students in my year group had an important decision to make. We could stay on for another two years and apply to the University of Scion London, or jump ship and look for a job.

To convert the undecided, the Schoolmistress had organised a lecture series from ‘inspirational’ (her word) speakers, with talks held every week during our last compulsory year. Some of them were former Ancroft students, while others had flown in from elsewhere in Scion. All of them had at least one degree.

I had no intention of going to the University. What else London could offer a young Irish woman, I didn’t yet know, but anything was better than two more years at Ancroft.

It was a grand building on Russell Square, formerly a hotel, with its own coffeehouse and roof terrace and a famous student orchestra. To everyone else in London, it was a perfect school. To me, it was a glorified prison, reminding me I would never belong.

That day, some of the teachers shepherded my year group into the lecture hall, all in our black suits and starched white blouses. Emma Briskin, head of chemistry, stepped up to the lectern.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ she said. ‘Today marks the last of our inspirational lectures in the sciences. Many of you excel in this field, and Ancroft looks forward to your long and successful careers.’

Even with the windows cracked, the hall was sweltering. I crossed my arms and slouched in my seat, wishing this could be over.

‘Our speaker today is from Sweden. He transferred from the Scion Citadel of Stockholm, finished his medical training in London, and now works as a lab technician at the Special Organisation for Research and Science, colloquially known as SciSORS.’

That was where my father worked.

‘Now, please give a warm Ancroft welcome to Dr Nicklas Nygård.’

It couldn’t be him.

Surely it couldn’t.

He arrived on the stage to a storm of applause. My saviour from the poppy field was just as I remembered him, except for the tailored suit and pomade. When he reached the lectern, he smiled.

‘Good morning, everyone.’

‘Good morning, Dr Nygård,’ we chorused.

‘Thank you for having me here in Bloomsbury,’ Nick said. ‘I know it’s too nice a day for a lecture, so I won’t take offence if you fall asleep.’

That got some chuckles. Most of the speakers had been dry as baked sawdust.

Nick took a sip of water and set out his notes. His gaze flicked up and caught on mine. The slightest frown creased his forehead.

He smoothed it away and hitched up his smile. ‘I’ll start at the beginning,’ he said. ‘Why science, of all the disciplines of Scion?’

I felt welded to my seat. My fingertips were tight on its arms.

‘In a way, it started with words,’ Nick said, glancing at me again. ‘The words scion and science both come from Old French. When I was studying English, I forged a link between them in my head. I learned scion comes from a botanical term, referring to a part of a plant that is cut away and grafted to new roots …’

Suzette leaned towards me. ‘He looked at you,’ she whispered. ‘Didn’t he?’

Behind us, Clara Barnes scoffed under her breath. ‘Who would ever look at her?’

For once, I could ignore the barb. Seven years of wondering had just come to an end.

‘My father works in the same place,’ I murmured to Suzette. ‘He might recognise me.’

‘Oh, Paige.’ Clara dug her knee into the back of my chair. ‘Do you really think someone like Dr Nygård associates with kerns?’

Suzette frowned at her. I ignored her again, my jaw clenched.

Nick delivered an engaging lecture. He spoke about his life with enthusiasm, cracking jokes as he went. He told us not only about his long career in bioscience – he had been a child prodigy, enrolling at university when he was fifteen – but also his love for his adopted citadel. At the end, Clara was first to raise a hand.

‘Yes,’ Nick said, gesturing to her.

Clara stood. ‘Dr Nygård,’ she said, ‘how long before we eradicate unnaturalness altogether, do you think?’

‘I really couldn’t say, but we’re trying.’

I barely heard the remaining questions. As soon as the applause started, I almost ran from the lecture hall.

Nick Nygård was my only hope. There had never been a dog in Arthyen. I needed him to tell me what had flayed me open there. I needed him to tell me why the scars were always cold.

I needed him to tell me this before it was too late.

I was the first student to burst into the corridor. Nick emerged from the lecture hall through another door, accompanied by the Schoolmistress. When he saw me, his eyes brightened at once.

‘Hello,’ he called. ‘Did you have a question?’

After a hesitation, I walked towards him. Of course the Schoolmistress had to be there.

‘I just—’ I held my nerve. ‘Your speech was very inspiring, Dr Nygård.’

‘Thank you,’ Nick said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘This is Paige Mahoney,’ the Schoolmistress said, putting her usual stress on my surname. She gave me a glacial look, taking in my untucked shirt and loose collar. ‘Your uniform, Paige.’

Evelyn Ancroft had resented my existence from the first day I arrived. Her goal in life was to mould the finest denizens in Europe, and Scion gave her piles of money to do it. I was the only flaw.

Ancroft was known for both its academic excellence and its watertight security. After our arrival in England, my father had convinced someone in Scion to override the usual entry requirements for me, in order to protect me during and after the Molly Riots.

He had not accounted for Evelyn Ancroft. Or how long the hatred of the Irish would endure.

‘Ms Gildon would like a word with you, Paige,’ she said, while I tucked my shirt in. ‘Your arithmetic has been clumsy of late.’

‘Paige was brave to come to see me, Schoolmistress. I’d like to see if she has a question,’ Nick said. ‘Some students are too shy to put their hands up.’

‘That’s very generous of you, Dr Nygård, but Paige has never shown much interest in the sciences.’ She took him by the elbow, lowering her voice: ‘A kern case – orders from on high. These brogues make up their own minds as to how much work is necessary.’

And then, against my will, it happened. My head gave a sharp throb. A slow pressure built at the front of my skull, darkening my sight.

‘You’re bleeding, Schoolmistress,’ I said.

‘What?’ When she looked down, blood dripped on to her crisp white shirt. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. I do apologise, Dr Nygård.’

Nick glanced at me, face wary, and offered her a handkerchief.

‘Perhaps you should sit down, Schoolmistress,’ he said. ‘I’ll join you in the conservatory.’

‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’

As soon as the Schoolmistress was gone, Nick turned to face me, his smile disappearing. Other students were spilling into the corridor.

‘I’ll meet you tomorrow at four,’ he said in an undertone. ‘Coram Street. Can you make it?’

‘I’ll be there,’ I said.

He gave me a nod and was gone. I was left to cradle my books, my hands clammy, my heart pounding. Suzette came up to me.

‘Well?’ she prompted. ‘Does he know Colin?’

‘No.’ I cleared my throat. ‘I just wanted to ask him something.’

‘Let’s not pretend you’ll be at the University, Paige.’ Clara shouldered past me. ‘Some people were born to lick the bottom of the pot.’

Clara Barnes was lucky that I let her walk away.

I didn’t sleep on Monday night, fearing he might not come back. On Tuesday, I endured my classes, unable to concentrate. When the bell rang, I forced myself to walk calmly out of the gates, but sped up as soon as I left Russell Square.

Something unusual had happened that morning. I had daydreamed about a silver car. The picture had come to me during my French lesson, leaving me nauseated. Now that very car was parked in Coram Street.

Nick wore sunglasses today. I got into the passenger seat and faced him.

‘Tell me what happened in Arthyen,’ I said, winded from walking so fast.

‘If you really want to know, I will,’ Nick said, his tone careful. ‘But the truth might scare you, Paige.’ Seeing my expression, he breathed out. ‘Let Colin know you’ll be home by seven. I’ll drive you.’

I sent my father a message, telling him I was doing my homework with Suzette. He replied to say that he would leave my dinner in the fridge.

Nick drove me east through the citadel. I wanted to bombard him with questions, but I could hardly think straight, let alone speak. After a while, Nick said, ‘You never told Colin what happened, did you?’

‘How do you know?’

‘We cross paths at work.’ His hands tightened on the wheel. ‘Paige, what I’m going to tell you – you won’t understand it all in one day.’

‘I’ve waited years,’ I said.

‘I know.’

As a child, my grandparents had often caught me staring at nothing. Sometimes I had felt tremors when certain people went past me.

Now I wasn’t just sensitive. I could hurt people. Something was emerging from me, forcing its way into the light. In the end, someone would see.

‘I should have got in touch sooner,’ Nick said, as if he could read my thoughts. ‘Does the Schoolmistress always treat you that way?’

‘Yes.’ I glanced out of the window. ‘That’s her third random nosebleed.’

‘I can help you control it. I can keep you safe.’

‘I believe you,’ I said. ‘You saved my life.’

Nick parked his car near Seven Dials. We sat in a quaint coffeehouse in Neal’s Yard, where I tried my first brew. I secretly thought it tasted like mud, but Nick had already paid, so I drank.

‘Paige,’ Nick said, ‘you know about unnaturalness.’

‘It’s a little hard to avoid,’ I said drily.

He cracked a genuine smile.

‘I don’t want to frighten you,’ he said, ‘but you’re showing signs of it.’

After a long moment, I nodded. Part of me had always known.

Still, Irish and unnatural. That was a hell of a combination in Scion.

‘I would never turn you in,’ Nick said quietly. ‘We can talk safely here. The owner, Chat, is a good man.’

‘I was young in Arthyen, but I remember it. There was no dog, was there?’

‘No.’ Nick sipped his coffee. ‘Paige, I’ve brought you to here to see a friend of mine, who wants to meet you very much. I trust him.’

‘Is he … like me?’

‘He is. I am, too,’ he said. ‘You saw my car before you got to Coram Street. Even the plate was identical, wasn’t it?’ I stared at him. ‘That’s what I do – my unnaturalness. I can make people see things.’

‘But you work for Scion.’

‘To bring it down. Over the years, I’ve learned to be careful,’ he said. ‘You’ve done well to not be detected so far.’

‘I don’t go out at night.’

Nick nodded. I drank some more coffee, if only to warm my fingers.

‘Ah,’ Nick said. ‘There he is.’

I looked over my shoulder. A man strode into the coffeehouse.

He slotted a cane into the coat stand. Tall and fine-boned, he was probably in his late thirties, with waxen skin and short dark hair. He wore a gold cravat, pressed trousers, and a black embroidered waistcoat.

You could have sharpened pencils on his cheekbones. His lips were pale and petulant. As he approached, they tweaked into a smile.

‘You must be Paige,’ he said, his voice deep and slightly amused. ‘Jaxon Hall.’

He snapped out a hand. I shook it, intimidated.

As soon as our fingers touched, I felt the faintest of vibrations, as if a cold draught had wafted from him. It was very similar to what I sensed from Nick. Jaxon took the seat opposite mine.

‘If this is a spurious case,’ he said to Nick, arching an eyebrow, ‘I will be crestfallen.’

‘It’s not.’

When the waitron came, Jaxon asked for nothing but a glass of blood mecks, an expensive substitute for red wine. Nick ordered soup for us both.

All the while, Jaxon observed me.

‘Nick told me the story of how you first met,’ he said. ‘He also informed me that you can inflict certain … medical abnormalities on other people.’ His gaze was cool, intrigued. ‘Is that correct, Paige?’

I glanced at Nick.

‘Jaxon doesn’t work for Scion,’ Nick said. ‘I promise.’

‘Don’t insult me,’ Jaxon said, with disdain. ‘Farther from the anchor than the cradle from the grave.’ He took a sip of his mecks. ‘Not that those two states are far apart, but you understand my meaning.’

I wasn’t sure I did.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Are you talking about the nosebleeds?’

‘Yes, the nosebleeds – fascinating.’ He clasped his hands on the table, his eyes alive with a sort of agitated intelligence. ‘Anything else?’

‘Headaches,’ I said. ‘Sometimes migraines, if I’m angry. Once I think I made someone faint.’

‘And how do you feel when it happens?’

‘Tired and sick, mostly.’

‘I see.’ He sat back, scrutinising me. ‘How old are you?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘Old enough to leave school, then. Do you plan to apply for the University?’

‘No fear.’

‘You seem very sure. Then again, I doubt I would have cared for higher education in Scion. Alas, I was denied the chance to go to school at all. Without a degree, it can be hard to find well-paid work in the citadel.’

‘I’ll take my chances. I’d rather die than spend one more year in that place.’

‘Brave girl.’ The corner of his mouth pulled up. ‘Do you have any idea what clairvoyance is, Paige?’

I shook my head.

‘It is one of the gentler and prettier names for the noble art of unnaturalness, as named by Scion,’ he informed me. ‘One who practises it is properly called a clairvoyant. Do you speak any French?’

‘Yes.’

‘Translate for us, if you please. Two words, clair and voyant.’

‘Clear seeing,’I said.

I might not like arithmetic, but I excelled at French.

‘Precisely,’ Jaxon said. ‘A clairvoyant is one who sees clearly, perceiving truths that lie beyond the reach of the five senses. Truths hidden from others.’

‘Hidden where?’

He blew out the candle in the middle of the table.

‘In the æther.’

I watched him through the trailing smoke.

‘The æther,’ Jaxon said, ‘is the source of all spirits – ergo, the cradle of being. We come from it; we live our lives alongside and within it; in death, we pass back into it, shedding our physical selves for good. It is knit with the living world, as much as air – a realm, invisible to most, thronged by the spirits of the dead.’

He had just uttered more treason than I had ever heard in my life.

I was drinking my first coffee with a pair of unnaturals.

‘Paige,’ Nick said. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine, but … sorry, I don’t think I fully understood any of that.’

Jaxon pursed his lips.

‘The æther is essentially a different plane of being,’ Nick clarified. ‘Only people like us – clairvoyants – can sense it.’

‘Not merely sense it, but use it,’ Jaxon cut in. ‘Forgive him, Paige. Dr Nygård tends to understate.’

‘I’m trying not to overwhelm her, Jax.’

‘Nonsense. She deserves to know what clairvoyance truly is,’ Jaxon said. ‘And rest assured, it is a marvel, Paige – not an affliction or a vice, as Scion would have you believe.’

A man with one hand brought our food on a platter. I dipped a slice of bread in my tomato soup, mostly for something to do with my hands.

‘Scion says the first unnatural was the Bloody King,’ I said. ‘He was a murderer.’

‘Edward was an unpalatable character, by all accounts. He might well have been Jack the Ripper,’ Jaxon conceded, ‘but I doubt the man was clairvoyant – rather a drunk and convenient patsy, framed to end the monarch days, and to clear a path for the Republic of Scion.’

‘Scion used him as an excuse?’

‘Yes, my dear.’ He gave me a catlike smile. ‘Harden yourself to the notion.’

‘We’re like anyone else, Paige. We do good and bad things,’ Nick told me. ‘Even if he was clairvoyant, his actions don’t reflect on all of—’

‘Don’t lie to the girl. We are most certainly not like anyoneelse,’ Jaxon chided. ‘We are clairvoyants, Dr Nygård. We are the keepers of truth, the guardians of the future; the bridge between the living and the dead, the mundane and the divine.’

All the hangings on the screens. Everything that had happened in Ireland. If Jaxon was telling the truth, all that blood had been spilled for a lie.

‘If you—’ I took a slow breath. ‘If we aren’t evil, why do they hunt us?’

Saying that we covered me in goosebumps. That word was like a tight embrace. At first, I felt trapped and afraid – it was too intimate, too much – and then it warmed and steadied me. I let myself sink into it.

‘We don’t know,’ Nick said.

Jaxon lit a cigar with a match. Now my curiosity was layered thick, muffling any trepidation.

‘Tell me more about spirits,’ I said.

‘Gladly,’ Jaxon said. ‘When we die, we abandon our bodies. Ideally, we go to the heart of the æther, where most voyants believe a lasting death is found – but some choose to linger as drifters, of which there are various kinds. We can barter them, bind them, call them for help.’

‘You’re talking about real, dead people. You can just pull their strings, and they’ll dance?’ I pressed. ‘Why would anyone want that?’

‘Oh, they cling for many reasons – to settle old scores, to haunt their killers. To stay with their loved ones, I suppose,’ he said, giving his cigar a wave. ‘All voyants can feel their presence, but we use them in different ways. They have knowledge of what is, and what is yet to come.’

As I listened, I ate a little of the bread, though it had as much taste as a wad of wet cotton.

‘Let us dig a little deeper.’ Jaxon tapped my hand with a fork. ‘Behold your earthly, mortal form – the cage of flesh and bone that lets you walk upon the corporeal plane. Within this cage, your spirit dwells.’ I hung on his every word. ‘Now, if your brain is the seat of your physical self, consider the dreamscape your spiritual house.’

‘Jax, enough,’ Nick said, weary. ‘We have plenty of time to—’

‘Wait,’ I said quickly. ‘Do you mean my poppies?’

Nick paused. ‘Poppies?’

‘I’ve seen them in my sleep since Arthyen.’

His face softened.

‘Perceiving your dreamscape is not quite sleep,’ Jaxon said, watching me with fresh interest. ‘But your instincts are right.’

I nodded. ‘Do only voyants have one?’

‘Oh, no. Even birds and beasts have a dreamscape; all embodied creatures do. It serves as both sanctuary and strongroom – a locus amoenus, if you will.’

I had no idea what he meant, but I was still enthralled.

‘Now, voyants can see our dreamscapes at will, learn to retreat into their depths; we also see them in colour,’ Jaxon went on. ‘Amaurotics can only glimpse theirs in their dreams, and only dream in shades of grey.’

‘Amaurotics?’

‘The dullards, darling. The normals and naturals, beloved by Scion.’

‘If they both have dreamscapes, how do I distinguish one from the other?’

Jaxon smiled again. ‘She asks the right questions, Dr Nygård. Would you like to tell her?’

‘Our connection to the spirit world is called an aura,’ Nick said. ‘It manifests as a kind of light around a person, usually just one colour. That’s how you can tell a voyant from an amaurotic.’

‘I’ve never seen one,’ I said. ‘Neither of you have one.’

Nick took a sterile cloth from a packet, wiped his hands, and reached for his eyes. I watched as he peeled off a pair of contact lenses.

‘Can you see, Paige?’

His eyes were pale wintergreen. The right pupil was shaped like a keyhole.

‘Some of us have the spirit sight,’ Nick explained. ‘We can see auras – even spirits. Having this hole in my iris makes me half-sighted. I can blink away the æther when I want. Jaxon is full-sighted.’

Jaxon widened his blue eyes for me. He had the little holes in both.

‘You can’t turn it off,’ I said, hedging a guess.

‘Quite right.’

I nodded, reassured. ‘I’m still voyant, even though I don’t have those.’

‘Yes,’ Nick said. ‘You just can’t see auras.’

‘Unsightedness is somewhat rare, but not a disadvantage. Without the sight to help you, your sixth sense will be working harder,’ Jaxon said, clearly pleased. ‘Now, Nick is an oracle, while I am a binder. Concentrate, now, Paige – can you feel any difference between us?’

‘Jaxon,’ Nick said in despair. ‘This is too advanced. Even you can’t always distinguish between voyants.’

Jaxon tutted. ‘Killjoy.’

I finished my coffee. It tasted worse cold.

‘The woman in the poppy field,’ I said to Nick. ‘That was a spirit.’

Nick nodded. ‘A violent spirit called a poltergeist. It’s a class of breacher, which means it can affect the living world. That’s how it hurt you.’

‘Then she did this to me. She made me this way.’

‘No, Paige.’

‘The poltergeist may have woken your gift early. Nick tells me it happened when you were nine,’ Jaxon said. ‘Usually an aura takes longer to sharpen.’ He drew on his cigar. ‘But you were always one of us. You would have come into your own either way.’

I glanced between the two men again.

Nick mustered an encouraging smile. Jaxon looked at me as if I were a lost valuable he had just recovered.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘What kind of … voyant do you think I am?’

‘That is what I would like to find out,’ Jaxon said. ‘Over the years, I have classified seven orders of clairvoyance. I believe you may be of the highest order – a dreamwalker, rarest of all. Perhaps the only one.’ He leaned across the table. ‘And I would like to offer you a job.’

‘What sort of job?’

‘The sort that will teach you to master your gift. The sort that will protect you from Scion. Honest work is hard to find,’ Jaxon said, with a mischievous glint in his eye, ‘but dishonest work is far more enlivening.’

‘Scion is everywhere,’ I said. ‘Won’t it be dangerous?’

‘Every day.’ Nick nodded. ‘But we’ll have each other.’

‘And riches aplenty,’ Jaxon said, silken. ‘To cushion our woes.’

My heart thumped at my ribs. A job lined up before I had even left school.

‘I hear your father is amaurotic. We’ll make sure he believes you’re doing something else,’ Jaxon added. ‘Something comfortable and sensible.’

Nick nodded again, solemnly.

I had lived in fear of myself for so long. I had lived in fear of Scion. For over a decade, I had fought to survive the anchor; to be as small and unnoticed as possible, so it might not crush me altogether.

Jaxon was offering me more. If there was any chance that I could live – any chance I could grow into what I was, embrace it – then I had to take it.

‘I’ve just the one question,’ I said.

‘Go on,’ Jaxon purred.

‘How much do you pay?’

Jaxon Hall smiled until the corners of his eyes crinkled.

‘Nick,’ he said softly, ‘I do believe you may have found our fourth of Seven Seals.’ He clinked my glass. ‘To you, Paige Mahoney.’

I smiled back.