Thorn blinks long and slow. ‘You found Duplicates?’
‘Yeah, suspended in tanks of fluid.’
‘Duplicates are real?’ Thorn gasps.
Ash nods. ‘I’ve seen them with my own eyes.’
‘Me too,’ I add.
Thorn releases Ash, his disbelief morphing into excitement. ‘This is . . . huge. I thought Dupes were just some sick rumour the Imps made up to turn the average Gem against the government.’ He pushes his hands through his hair, the knife sandwiched between his thumb and forefinger. ‘This is beyond huge.’ He turns to me. ‘How many Gems know about this?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘Just the really wealthy ones, I think. Alice said most of the Dupes are stored in secret warehouses, the Harpers moved theirs because some of the guards were . . . you know . . . doing disgusting things.’
‘To the Dupes?’ Thorn says
I nod.
Thorn exhales. ‘So it’s widespread amongst the Gem rich and elite, but a very well-kept secret. The average Gem obviously hasn’t got a clue, otherwise I would already know about it. If this gets out, well, it would really shake things up. Turn the average Gem against the government.’ A smile spreads across his face and he turns to Ash. ‘And you said you found this bunker?’
‘Yeah.’
‘With no help?’
Ash shakes his head. ‘No help at all.’
‘When?’
‘A few months ago, I guess.’
Thorn laughs. ‘And you figured out there was a cloaking device, and then you didn’t tell a soul until you met young Violet here?’
Ash nods. ‘I kind of like being alive.’
Thorn tucks his knife into his belt. ‘Enterprising and secretive. Maybe you aren’t rubbish after all.’ He turns to face me. ‘The Meat House, Duplicates. You’ve excelled yourself.’ He pauses in the doorway, the smile still stuck to his face. ‘I’ll send Darren to get you in five minutes. Consider it part of your reward, Little Flower.’
Ash and I slump against the wall, our arms and hips pressed together.
‘He is one scary guy,’ Ash says.
I rest my hand on his. ‘Seeing him with that knife—’
Ash silences me with a kiss and I feel the anxiety gradually begin to lift.
He pulls away, a thoughtful look on his face. ‘Little Flower.’
‘Thorn always calls me that. I hate it.’
‘It’s just strange, you know. Ash and Little Flower. I never thought about it until now.’
I shake my head, confused.
‘I guess I never told you the last bit of that skipping rhyme,’ he says.
‘No.’
He begins to speak, just out of time with the constant drip of water.
‘Count the thistles, one, two, three,
Soon the Imps will all be free.
Count the thistles, four, five, six, Take up your guns, your stones and sticks.
The ash trees turn from green to red,
Spring has gone, the summer’s dead.
Count the minutes, not the hours,
Cos hope starts as a little flower.’
Hope starts as a little flower.
This line really gets under my skin. I follow Darren through the stone corridors and up some stairs, but I still can’t shake that line from my mind.
Hope starts as a little flower.
It seems to be about . . . me. Could I be the little flower? The little flower who left spring back home, missed summer, and arrived here in autumn. The little flower who’s supposed to bring hope? It can’t be about Rose. After all, roses are large if anything. And I remember Baba’s words when I first met her: That’s the thing about the viola flower, it’s little, but it’s rather special.
This rhyme wasn’t in canon, which makes sense if it’s about me – I wasn’t in canon. But it sounds more like a prophecy than a children’s rhyme, like I was always destined to save the Imps, which makes no sense. I understand how my clumsy butterfly wings can affect the present, the future, but this rhyme existed long before Ash’s birth. Surely I can’t change the past and create a prophecy? And more importantly, if it is a prophecy, it’s an unbelievably crap one. I’ve screwed up big style – there’s no way I’ll be inciting a revolution anytime soon.
It’s just a rhyme, I tell myself. A dumb kids’ rhyme. At the moment, my very own personal prophecy is more likely to be Humpty-bloody-Dumpty.
I’ve been so buried in my thoughts, I barely notice that we’ve climbed the stairs and reached the wooden door which leads to the ochre room – to Katie. A sense of calm spreads through me, just thinking about her soft Scouse accent.
Darren unlocks the door. ‘The boss said you get one last reward.’
I push through into that musty, dank smell. The door slams behind me.
Katie lounges on a tatty grey sofa, pushed up against the back wall. Her delicate features spring into a smile. ‘Violet!’ She throws her arms around me.
I hug her back.
‘I can’t believe it’s you,’ she says. ‘It’s just a massive pile of pants here.’
It can’t be much fun for her, still stuck in this poky room, but at least there’s some daylight now, the window cleared of grime just like she said in her letter. I visualize Katie and Thorn, working side by side, and can’t help feeling a little curious about their conversations.
She no longer wears her catsuit, but a blue linen dress and a brown woollen cardigan. And judging from her slightly floral smell, Thorn’s been allowing her to bathe frequently. She looks even more Jane Austen than Sally King right now – her cheeks all rosy like she’s just come in from a stroll across the hills.
I hold her at arm’s length. ‘I’ve been so worried about you.’
‘You’ve been worried. I’m not the one who’s been gallivanting around this horrible place for days. I’m just so glad you’re back.’
‘Not for long.’
Her face falls.
I give her a sympathetic smile. ‘I’m still trying to sort it all out.’
She slumps on to the sofa, clouds of dust billowing around her. ‘So how’s it all going?’
I sit by her side, unable to look her in the eye. ‘I messed up, Katie, big style. Alice ended up sleeping with Willow, so he never followed me into the city like he was supposed to. The canon’s way off-track and I don’t know what to do.’
Her body stiffens. ‘Alice did what?’
‘Don’t make me say it again.’
She slams her fists into the cushions, sending more dust eddying into the air. ‘That filthy little slagbag. I thought she looked a little too happy waltzing off to Gem-land, you know, considering you’re going to hang . . . Sorry, I know you hate the H word.’
‘That’s the thing. I hate it, but I hate the thought of staying here more.’
I can’t quite pinpoint the emotion which crosses her face. Sorrow, anger, denial. ‘It’s not over yet, Vi,’ she says. ‘There’s still one day left.’
‘One day . . . and Willow loves Alice, not me. It doesn’t look good for Team Violet right now.’
‘Love?’ She narrows her eyes and tightens her mouth. ‘More like lust. You know what Alice is like, dirty little slutmuppet – she probably jumped the poor lad and flashed her knockers. He’ll soon realize what a skankosaurus she is and want you.’
‘By tomorrow?’
She sighs. ‘So what happens if you don’t hang? Do we really just stay here?’