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‘What about the others?’ Joan managed. ‘Is everyone okay?’

‘They’re not in this time.’

‘Just you here?’ Joan said, surprised.

‘We’ve been trying to find you,’ Ruth said simply. ‘Everyone’s been chasing up different leads.’

Joan’s throat felt tight. She loved the Hunts so much, and they’d shown her how much they loved her back at every turn. They’d died trying to help her last time. She’d have died herself to bring them back.

‘I’m so sorry I ghosted you all when I got home last summer,’ she whispered to Ruth. She’d left the Hunts’ messages unanswered.

Ruth poked Joan’s foot with hers—her most annoying habit from when they were little. She poked her again and then again, until Joan poked her back. ‘Stop it,’ she told Ruth, but she couldn’t help but smile a little.

‘I know why you didn’t want to talk,’ Ruth said softly. ‘You found out we were monsters. You couldn’t bear it.’

‘Ruth …’

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Ruth said. ‘You don’t even cheat at cards, and then you find out you’re an actual monster. Course you didn’t message me back. You didn’t want it to be true.’ Her green eyes were just like Gran’s—just like the photos of Mum. ‘You were so sick after you found out. Bertie kept saying that your body was rejecting the monster part of itself. You were sick for weeks. And then after that, you didn’t want to talk about any of it.’

Joan shook her head. She could see why Ruth would think that, but, in reality, Joan had burned herself out when she’d unmade Nick. That was what had made her sick.

Ruth was right about one thing, though. Joan hadn’t wanted any of it to be true. She still didn’t want it to be. Some part of her wished she’d never found out about this world; that she could somehow forget that she and the Hunts were monsters.

Jamie led them to a building that reminded Joan of a car repair shop. A roller door gaped wide, and inside there was a half-gutted boat with faded green paint. A muscled Hathaway woman was working on it, sleeves rolled up, wrench in hand. A black raven sat on her shoulder, watching interestedly.

‘Hey, Sal,’ Jamie said, and she nodded, lifting the wrench in greeting.

It wasn’t only a Hathaway place. Half-finished paintings lay propped against one wall, oils drying. A paint-spotted sheet was neatly folded under a bare easel. The place seemed part workshop, part studio. Part Hathaway, part Liu.

‘Hathaways and Lius live here together?’ Joan asked Jamie.

‘We both have rooms here,’ Jamie said. ‘Although, to be honest, the Hathaways prefer their boats to beds on land. No one lives here permanently, though. It’s …’ He thought. ‘The Lius and Hathaways are allies, and this is one of the places where we meet. There’s not really an equivalent in the human world.’ He lifted another roller door. ‘Just through here.’

He showed them to a comfortable-looking break room that reminded Joan of the Tranquility’s interior—although larger. The kitchenette was galley-like, lining both walls here at the front. White sofas and soft single chairs were set up beyond it.

Filtered afternoon light spilled in from big round windows on the left-hand wall. Outside, wildflowers grew untamed in a garden that ended in thick ash trees and glimpses of what Joan thought at first was a road until she saw the slow movement of water and a moored narrowboat rocking gently. It was a canal.

In the galley, a slender Liu and a big Hathaway washed a heavy frying pan and stacked a dishwasher. Joan guessed that there’d just been a communal lunch; she could faintly smell fried fish and ginger.

Beyond, in the sitting area, about twenty people chatted and sketched and played on their phones—Lius with phoenix tattoos and Hathaways with cats and dogs on their laps.

It felt safe here. The atmosphere was relaxed—somewhere between the walled garden of the Liu compound and life on a boat.

Even as Joan thought that, though, the mood was punctured. One of the Lius caught sight of Nick and froze mid-conversation, shocked. And now the soft buzz of chatter slowed and stuttered as, one by one, more Lius noticed him.

Joan’s stomach lurched. They knew who Nick was.

She should have guessed this would happen. Some of the Lius remembered previous timelines; of course they would have shared information about Nick with the rest of the family.

And the Hathaways were reacting now too—cued by the Lius. Big muscles bunched and jaws tightened. Heavy hands curled into protective fists.

In the silence, a boy of about eighteen got slowly to his feet. He had Chinese features and the same rugby-player heft as Tom. Joan wondered if one of his parents was a Hathaway. He was a Liu, though, in power—a tattoo of the Lius’ multicoloured phoenix was curled around one hulking arm.

Jamie lifted his hands slowly. ‘Liam, I can explain.’

Liam said disbelievingly, ‘Explain? What’s there to explain?’ He pointed a shaky finger at Nick. ‘What’s that thing doing here?’

‘Don’t call him that!’ Joan blurted. ‘He’s not a thing!’ She felt really sick now. What had she been thinking bringing Nick here?