waiting to see if anyone had heard the sound of her hand slamming into the bookcase. Nothing happened. She relaxed a little, though her heart was still thrumming, as quick as an insect’s wing-beats. Running her hand along the edge of the bookcase, she realised with a stomach-flip of excitement just what it was she’d uncovered.
A doorway.
Sixteen years Alba had lived in this house. She thought she knew everything about it. But here was a secret, hidden doorway, like something out of a book or a dream.
Alba pushed the panel in the bookshelf open further. It opened into shadows and darkness. Crossing back to the armchair where she’d been reading, she snatched up her lamp. The wet flame of the candle licked across the room as she hurried back to the doorway, held the light out in front of her and went inside.
‘A memorium,’ she breathed, knowing immediately what the hidden room was.
Memoriums were people’s own private memory rooms. Alba had never been allowed anything to do with memory-surfing. Her parents said that until she was eighteen and a legal adult, she hadn’t earnt the privilege to try it herself: just another of their ways to keep her from experiencing the world. Heavens forbid she see anything that made her question the life they’d created (
curated
, more like) for her in North. They kept Alba away from the boutiques and memory-houses in North offering sessions with memory-machines to its customers, and she’d only once caught a glimpse on a school trip years ago of one of the plush rooms the banks had for their customers to sample memories.
This secret room was big and windowless, and smelled of old wood. Grand mahogany cabinets lined the walls. In the centre of the room was a desk. Instead of a normal seat behind it though, there was a large, sleek-looking metal thing –
A memory-machine.
Alba shut the door behind her. Feathers of excitement tracing her spine, she set her lamp on the desk to inspect the machine.
It was open at the front with a cushioned seat built into it, made from a soft, spongy material that moulded round her hand when she pressed it. Clasps stuck out of the armrests. At the top was a rounded cap on an adjustable slide. A logo was printed on the back of the machine – a pair of black wings, spread wide as if in flight – and there was writing underneath:
SONY LIFE-FLIGHT v7.8.
Alba was just reaching out to touch the logo when a noise behind her made her heart stop.
9
SEVEN
The girl turned slowly, as if in a daydream. Her mouth fell open and her hands curled into fists at her sides, but apart from that she looked surprisingly
unsurprised
to see Seven standing there. In fact, he thought, she even looked a little guilty herself.
Seven decided he disliked her immediately. He’d seen the girl before on observation trips to the house, but up close she was far too pretty. Rich and beautiful and well fed (she was chubby – you didn’t get that way without plenty of food).
Some people had it so
easy
.
Scowling, he took in her pink cheeks, her cascade of dark red hair. The white nightdress she wore shimmered in the low light, skimming across her milky skin, which was as soft and pale as moonlight.
Seven wondered why he wasn’t running away. Instead, he was just standing there dumbly. They were
both
just standing there dumbly, staring at each other.
Perhaps if she had been an adult he’d have tried to escape. But this girl looked not much younger than him, and utterly harmless. She seemed like the kind of girl who was weak, soft, and more likely to huddle up and cry if you annoyed her than throw apples at you.
Eventually, the silence made Seven so uncomfortable he had to say something.
‘Er … ’ he began. He rubbed the back of his neck and attempted a grin. ‘Well. This has never happened before.’
The girl blinked. She had wide green eyes, deep and soft, the same colour as fresh grass or the water of the Thames at sunrise. They flitted to the door behind
A doorway.
Sixteen years Alba had lived in this house. She thought she knew everything about it. But here was a secret, hidden doorway, like something out of a book or a dream.
Alba pushed the panel in the bookshelf open further. It opened into shadows and darkness. Crossing back to the armchair where she’d been reading, she snatched up her lamp. The wet flame of the candle licked across the room as she hurried back to the doorway, held the light out in front of her and went inside.
‘A memorium,’ she breathed, knowing immediately what the hidden room was.
Memoriums were people’s own private memory rooms. Alba had never been allowed anything to do with memory-surfing. Her parents said that until she was eighteen and a legal adult, she hadn’t earnt the privilege to try it herself: just another of their ways to keep her from experiencing the world. Heavens forbid she see anything that made her question the life they’d created (
curated
, more like) for her in North. They kept Alba away from the boutiques and memory-houses in North offering sessions with memory-machines to its customers, and she’d only once caught a glimpse on a school trip years ago of one of the plush rooms the banks had for their customers to sample memories.
This secret room was big and windowless, and smelled of old wood. Grand mahogany cabinets lined the walls. In the centre of the room was a desk. Instead of a normal seat behind it though, there was a large, sleek-looking metal thing –
A memory-machine.
Alba shut the door behind her. Feathers of excitement tracing her spine, she set her lamp on the desk to inspect the machine.
It was open at the front with a cushioned seat built into it, made from a soft, spongy material that moulded round her hand when she pressed it. Clasps stuck out of the armrests. At the top was a rounded cap on an adjustable slide. A logo was printed on the back of the machine – a pair of black wings, spread wide as if in flight – and there was writing underneath:
SONY LIFE-FLIGHT v7.8.
Alba was just reaching out to touch the logo when a noise behind her made her heart stop.
9
SEVEN
The girl turned slowly, as if in a daydream. Her mouth fell open and her hands curled into fists at her sides, but apart from that she looked surprisingly
unsurprised
to see Seven standing there. In fact, he thought, she even looked a little guilty herself.
Seven decided he disliked her immediately. He’d seen the girl before on observation trips to the house, but up close she was far too pretty. Rich and beautiful and well fed (she was chubby – you didn’t get that way without plenty of food).
Some people had it so
easy
.
Scowling, he took in her pink cheeks, her cascade of dark red hair. The white nightdress she wore shimmered in the low light, skimming across her milky skin, which was as soft and pale as moonlight.
Seven wondered why he wasn’t running away. Instead, he was just standing there dumbly. They were
both
just standing there dumbly, staring at each other.
Perhaps if she had been an adult he’d have tried to escape. But this girl looked not much younger than him, and utterly harmless. She seemed like the kind of girl who was weak, soft, and more likely to huddle up and cry if you annoyed her than throw apples at you.
Eventually, the silence made Seven so uncomfortable he had to say something.
‘Er … ’ he began. He rubbed the back of his neck and attempted a grin. ‘Well. This has never happened before.’
The girl blinked. She had wide green eyes, deep and soft, the same colour as fresh grass or the water of the Thames at sunrise. They flitted to the door behind
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