A/N: The first part of this chapter runs parallel to the previous one.

The courtyard was still empty when Alex followed Dwale quietly outside. It should have been nice in the sunlight, but all Alex could think about was the other people on the island, and he was glad he didn't have to meet them yet.

"The student accommodations are in a separate building," Dwale said when Alex didn't speak. "All students have their own room during their stay. I trust you to be sensible enough to manage as well."

I'm nine, Alex didn't say. Just nodded. What else could he do?

Calm, connect, capitalize. Doctor Three had immediately known what he was doing but Alex had nothing else to draw on and wasn't sure what else he could do. Just try to stay on the good side of Dwale and the doctor and the rest of the killers on the island and hope for the best.

The doctor had said that his family was on their way, too. Did that include Jamie? Alex didn't know. If it didn't, maybe Jamie would know what to do. Maybe he could do something. Maybe his dad could. Alex didn't know what that something might be but – this was their sort of world. These were people they knew. If anyone could do something, it was them.

Up above, the bell tower loomed. Dwale had said it was all cosmetic damage. Alex still imagined he could see the mortar crumble between the bricks, and he looked away and suppressed a shudder.

The building Dwale led him to was large and rectangular and ugly and looked like it was about to fall apart, too. It looked more stable than the bell tower, but Matilda had made block towers that looked better than the bell tower so that was a low standard. The paint was peeling and there was a hole in the roof and several of the windows on the top floor were broken. The door didn't look any better but it opened without a sound and was made of solid wood with a metal core as well. If someone locked it, Alex suspected, it would be hard to get it open again without the key.

"We have seven students at the moment," Dwale continued. "You will meet them later, along with the teachers."

The knot of anxiety in Alex's stomach tightened at the thought but he didn't say anything. Just nodded again and followed Dwale up the stairs.

The room he was finally let into was on the second floor. Alex had expected something like the rooms the boarding school students in Geneva had lived in, but this was more like a very expensive hotel room. It was huge. The bedroom was right next to the door but overlooked a large, open living room one floor down with sofas, a desk, and a TV. Out the window, out in the distance, he could see the outline of Venice. There was even a fridge and what looked like a very fancy coffee machine with a basket of wrapped snacks next to it. The whole place was maybe half the size of their home in Helsinki, and all of it was just for him.

It looked very, very lonely.

Alex hugged himself and followed Dwale down the stairs to the living room. There was a stack of books and notebooks on the desk and clothes in neat piles on a sofa. The books looked like some of his mum's, large and heavy, and the clothes looked brand new. He didn't know what he was supposed to need for murder classes but he didn't like the ideas he got.

Maybe Dwale noticed, because he glanced at the books, then back at Alex.

"You're not expected to read all of them," Dwale assured him. "The lesson plan will let you know what will be covered in class during your time here as well as the code for your door."

Alex stared at the books. Electrical Engineering: A Practical Approach stared back at him from the top of the pile.

"That one is taught by Gordon Ross," Dwale said. The name meant nothing to Alex. "His classes cover a number of subjects. Lessons here tend to be practical while the reading material covers the more theoretical knowledge and background required."

Alex picked up the book and opened it at random somewhere near the middle. A detailed drawing full of lines and numbers and short notes took up one side. The other was all text.

- will not always be available and adjustments will be needed. Example 34.2 (opposite) illustrates one such adaptation used for an IBM Model M5-2 keyboard. It compensates for the unusual shape and restricted space by -

None of it made sense. Alex closed the book and grabbed the next one. That one was simply titled Poisons.

A quick check of the index revealed that it was exactly what it said on the cover.

Introduction: Every Flower is a Funeral. Lesser-Known Poisons of History -

Then, further down –

Practical Applications of Cross-Reactivity. Opioids. Molecular Marvels: Designs for a New Millennium -

Alex closed the book again. That one made even less sense than the first one did. He didn't know how he was even supposed to read all of it, much less understand it.

"Eijit Binnag's class," Dwale said. "She wrote the textbook as well. She is also responsible for the greenhouses here."

With that sort of book, Alex wasn't sure he wanted to get anywhere near those greenhouses. He doubted there was anything good in there.

The pile of books was still intimidatingly tall. The Art of Disguises, Psychological Manipulation, Interrogation Techniques, and it kept going. At the very bottom, two huge dictionaries completed the collection.

Alex looked away. He regretted ever agreeing to those classes, even if it had helped keep the doctor in a nice mood. He didn't understand half of what he had read so far and the half he did understand just made it worse. What kind of students did a school like that have?

… students like Jamie, Alex remembered. Students like his dad.

He wanted to go home. He wanted his mum. He wanted their life back in Geneva, when he had never known anything was wrong and the worst he had to deal with was having friends move away if their parents got new jobs somewhere else.

"Dinner is at seven," Dwale continued, like it was just a boarding school and Alex was just visiting for a weekend. "Dining in a group setting allows the students to put their lessons in manners to practical use and to practice small-talk and similar skills in a safer setting. Class starts at eight in the morning. The morning run is at six, with breakfast at seven."

Dwale stopped. Alex took his cue.

"… Okay."

He couldn't think of anything else to say. Everything felt overwhelming. So many things to remember and all he could think about was that he had never had to get up on his own before. His mum had always been there to make sure he was up on time. Was there an alarm clock or something? There had to be, right?

The silence stretched on. Dwale seemed to be waiting for something and didn't seem bothered, but Alex had to fight to not fidget where he stood.

The reason for the wait became clear long minutes later. A sharp knock on the door broke the awkward silence. Whoever it was clearly knew they were expected, because the door opened before Dwale could answer and footsteps followed as a man appeared and descended the stairs. He looked about as happy to be there as Alex felt.

"This is Professor Yermalov," Dwale introduced the man when he reached them. "He teaches close combat and physical education."

Professor Yermalov, scowling and dressed in black clothes that looked like a uniform, didn't look like any of the professors Alex had known. He looked mean, but Alex knew how to deal with that. Politely and carefully, like his mum had taught him. To be on his best behaviour so the professor wouldn't get upset with him.

"Sir."

Yermalov made an annoyed sound but it didn't seem aimed at Alex, not really.

"I won't coddle him," he told Dwale.

"The doctor doesn't expect you to," Dwale assured him, and the anxious knot in Alex's stomach tightened.

Another annoyed sound but that was apparently normal, because Dwale turned his attention back to Alex.

"Professor Yermalov will make sure you find your way around the school and assist you with any questions. Many of our former students have fond memories of the school. I hope you will have the same," he said and sounded so sincere that Alex wanted to punch him.

Then, without any further instructions for them, Dwale turned and left, up the stairs and out of sight. A few seconds later, the door closed behind him and silence settled.

Yermalov didn't speak and Alex didn't dare to.

Alone with the professor, Alex almost wanted Dwale to come back. You'll be quite safe, the doctor had said, but the doctor had also had him kidnapped – him and his mum and Matilda – and Alex swallowed but didn't speak.

The silence stretched on. Then Yermalov reached out and Alex instinctively took a step back before he could stop it. For a moment he was scared of what the man would do but all that happened was an impatient gesture towards Alex's arm.

It still hurt a little but Alex reluctantly followed instructions. Yermalov made a considering sound and the scowl eased a little.

"Skittish," he said. It sounded like grudging approval.

Alex forced himself to stay still as Yermalov pushed his sleeve up and inspected the spots where the needles had gone in, then turned his arm to both sides to get a better view of the finger-shaped bruises. Something about seeing them like this, dull red marks and dark bruises from the needles, made tears sting in Alex's eyes again.

"Not too bad. It will hurt. It will not slow you down."

His accent reminded Alex a little of the time he had spent with Jamie in Russia. The name sounded like it, too.

Jamie. Was Jamie all right? Were they going to target him, too?

Alex wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He tried to be subtle about it but it was impossible to hide under Yermalov's scrutiny. Alex wasn't sure what he had expected. To see the man's scowl ease further as he crouched down to be closer to Alex's height wasn't it.

"Boy." He waited until he was sure he had Alex's attention before he continued. "You are here because of politics. The best you can do is to go along with it. You are here under Dr Three's patronage. No one will dare lay a finger on you."

I don't care. I want to go home.

Alex didn't say that, though. Just nodded. He didn't trust his voice.

Maybe Yermalov knew. He didn't press for an answer, at least. Just watched him for several more second. Then he got back up.

"Get dressed," he ordered. "Exercise clothes. You have five minutes."

Alex's confusion must have shown because Yermalov looked vaguely impatient. "You need exercise and I want an idea of your prior training. Go change. Meet me outside."

Short, simple instructions. Alex could do that.

Yermalov, Alex quickly learned, was not a kind teacher. Despite Alex's first impression, he wasn't mean, either. Just stern. Maybe he was different with the adult students, but he was patient with Alex and didn't get mad when Alex reached the natural limits of his age.

They had jogged around the island – to warm up, Yermalov had said – and it had served as an extended tour as well. Most of the place looked as awful as the parts Alex had already seen. The paths were worn into the grass from use, not any kind of planning, and the trees and bushes served as a natural wall all the way around the island. No one could see what happened and the subtle security Alex spotted made sure no one would sneak onto the island uninvited.

There were large, low greenhouses shielded from view by old walls that had held up roofs that were long since lost. There was an obstacle course that looked like something out of the army. There was even a building with shooting ranges that looked a lot more advanced than Alex was used to.

Yermalov didn't talk much but everything he said had a purpose. Mostly, it was explanations or instructions or a lot of questions for Alex about what he did or didn't know already. In any other case, Alex would probably have been annoyed. Now, he was so focused on Yermalov and everything he had to keep up with, that for a little while he almost managed to forget the situation he was in.

"You can shoot," Yermalov stated, because that definitely wasn't a question. Alex didn't want to imagine what the reaction would be if he hadn't learned. "What age, and what do you have practical experience with?"

"Six, and Walther TPH and SIG Sauer P220," Alex recited dutifully. "I've used a shotgun and hunting rifle, too, but I only got a few weeks of experience with them and I don't remember the models."

Yermalov made a sound that was probably approval. That was how Alex interpreted it, anyway.

"Hunter was a good instructor."

Definitely approval, then. Alex didn't get to enjoy it for long because Yermalov carried right now, but he wasn't sure he wanted to linger on his dad being a good instructor at an assassin-school, anyway.

"Martial arts. Did you learn a specific one?"

Had he? Not that he had been told, at least. It had always just been self-defence to him. "No, sir."

"Hm. Perhaps." Yermalov didn't sound convinced. "Hunter's was a bit of a bastard mix, at least in the records we have available. Sensible approach. Harder to predict. Show me."

Alex was tired already but Yermalov moved before Alex even had time to realise it and he only barely managed to dodge the strike. It wouldn't have hit hard, he didn't think so – he didn't hope so – but it was a sharp reminder that Yermalov was the close combat instructor, and Alex didn't stand a chance against his dad or Jamie when they trained. He didn't think it would go any better with Yermalov.

Then Yermalov struck again and Alex's focus narrowed down to the man in front of him and his own desperate attempts to keep up.

The sun had set by the time Yermalov finally let him go. It hadn't been all physical stuff – you're nine, the man had told him gruffly, you don't have the training to keep up – but the barrages of questions when Alex did catch a break were almost as exhausting in their own way.

Twice, Alex had seen the adult students. Yermalov had stayed away from the large, open courtyard but it was a small island and the students had classes. Alex wasn't surprised to see them but it was still unnerving when he knew just what sort of people they were. It was a small group that seemed to know to stay clear of Yermalov and whatever was going on, because they didn't linger and didn't stare. Not obviously, anyway. Alex still felt the prickle in the back of his neck of someone watching him, but when he turned around, the students had vanished around a corner.

"They know to mind their own business. Excessive curiosity is unwanted."

Yermalov's explanation had been as blunt and harsh as he himself was, and Alex had wisely ignored them the second time they passed by at a distance.

Eventually, the shadows grew longer. The sun set. Lights hidden in the ground turned on. Finally, the questions and the tests stopped as well.

"It will do," Yermalov said. "The foundation is there. You had good instructors. Go shower. I will be back for you at a quarter to seven."

Right. Dinner at seven. What time was it? Alex had no idea. He didn't have a watch and there were no clocks around. The sun had set so … after five? But Venice was further south than Helsinki was, so 'after five' didn't say much. It could be past six for all Alex knew but he was so tired, he could have gone straight to bed.

It was easy to find his way back. The island was small and the bell tower never vanished out of sight for long. Yermalov still followed him all the way to his room and didn't leave until Alex had entered the code and closed the door behind him.

The room was dark and still. Silent and dead and with the sort of weird, dusty-clean smell of a hotel room where nobody had stayed for a long time. Alex turned on the lights. He could see what he was doing, at least, but the room was still too large and too quiet and too empty.

The books still waited on the desk. The clothes were still in neat stacks on the sofa. The clock said it was a little after six. He had about half an hour to get ready, then. The last thing he wanted to do was make Yermalov wait.

One of the sets of clothes looked more formal than the others. A shirt and nice trousers. Alex left them on the bed.

The bathroom looked like a hotel room, too. A tub and a sink and large, fluffy towels, but the bottles with soap and shampoo were full-sized ones. Maybe because the students stayed there for longer.

The shower was awkward. It was too tall and made for adults, not for a kid, and it took a few attempts to get the shower head far enough down that it was comfortable.

Soap, hair, rinse -

Vivid red caught Alex's attention and for long seconds, he just stared at his arm. The bruises had been bad earlier. Somehow hours of exercise and a shower just made the colour look even worse. It was sore and it hurt when he poked it and he knew it would be awful in the morning.

Alex forced himself to look away. The shirt would hide it, at least.

He got out of the shower and managed to get his hair mostly-dry with the large towel. The clothes fit, which made him wonder just what else they knew about him. He didn't want to think about that.

Yermalov knocked on the door three minutes early. Alex was already done and let him in immediately.

"Punctual."

At least that sounded like approval. Yermalov closed the door behind him.

"You are here to ensure Hunter's cooperation," he said with the bluntness that Alex had already learned to expect. "That is not the story SCORPIA wants to be told. The official story is that Hunter always worked for SCORPIA but was undercover as a freelance assassin. Enemies of SCORPIA found out and hunted down him and his family for revenge. SCORPIA saved you from an attempted kidnapping and brought you here for protection until your family could be safely extracted from Helsinki as well. That is the story you will remember. The students here know better than to ask, but body language will betray you more surely than words. Do you understand?"

He wouldn't just have to eat with the people who had kidnapping him and his mum and sister to get to his dad; he would have to pretend he felt safe with them, too. Because they had saved him. Because they were his dad's colleagues.

The knot of tension in Alex's stomach tightened.

"Yes, sir," he agreed, a little quiet but the best he could manage.

He felt sick. When did he last eat anything? He wasn't sure. He just knew that he wasn't hungry. All he wanted was to throw up.

Still, it was apparently good enough. Yermalov led him outside, away from the student building and towards another one that looked just as hazardous as everything else on the island. There was a hole in the roof and several windows were boarded up but when they stepped inside, it transformed the same way everything else had.

Fancy tables, expensive-looking lamps, white tablecloths, and painfully formal-looking chairs made the room look like one of those restaurants that Alex had always hated; with long menus he didn't understand half of and dinners that took forever to get done.

There were people, too. All of them were adults but some looked younger than others and Alex assumed those were the students. He wasn't sure what he had expected but they all looked … unnervingly normal. Like people he could have walked by somewhere and never noticed.

All of them but one. Alex's attention kept drifting back to one of the students. He was younger than the rest of them, maybe even a teenager, and while his skin was black, he had symmetrical white marks, too.

Were they scars? Did they hurt? It didn't look like it but Alex still felt bad for him. That would have been awful in school.

"Vitiligo," Yermalov said. Alex realised he must have stared and quickly looked away as the man continued. "His skin lacks pigment. Harmless but makes it hard to remain anonymous."

His voice was low enough not to carry. The room had gone silent at their entrance, but then the quiet background noise had picked up again. The stares remained, though. Nothing obvious but Alex was painfully aware of every flicker of attention in their direction, every glance that lingered a moment too long, and he did his best to ignore it.

Yermalov led him towards a table at the end of the room, right where everyone at it would have a good view of everything around them. The sort of spot his dad or Jamie would have approved of. Alex tried to ignore that thought, too.

The table was set for six with expensive-looking plates and silverware but only two of the places were taken, and both of the people were older than what Alex assumed were the students. They were probably teachers, then. Like Yermalov. They didn't seem to mind the empty seats and no one seemed in any hurry to come join them.

The woman was small, smaller than his mum, with black hair and dark eyes and a soft smile. She was Asian but Asia was huge and Alex didn't know enough to make a better guess. He wasn't sure it would make a difference, either. The man was red-headed, taller and a bit scrawny but with tattoos visible at the top of his shirt. Unlike the woman, he definitely looked like someone who belonged in a place like this.

"This must be Hunter's son," the woman greeted when they sat down. Even her voice sounded gentle, and her English was flawless. "It is very nice to meet you. My name is Eijit Binnag, but you can call me Jet."

Poisons. Alex recognised her name from one of the textbooks. She looked nice. Kind. Like one of those understanding teachers that never raised their voice and didn't mind if the lessons derailed a little, except she had written an entire book about poisons for people training to become killers, and she was going to be his teacher.

SCORPIA saved you.

"I'm Alex," he responded quietly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Professor Binnag."

That is the story you will remember.

"Gordon Ross," the man introduced himself in a heavy Scottish accent. "Polite kid, huh? What do you think of this place so far? Not your usual kind of school!"

Alex recognised that name as well. Electrical Engineering. Ross hadn't written that book but what Alex had seen of it made no sense at all, and he wasn't sure if that was better or worse than understanding all too well what Binnag's book was about.

What did he think about the school? A lot of things, and none of it was good, but Alex didn't say that.

Calm, connect, capitalize. It hadn't worked with the doctor but it was the only thing Alex had to rely on. The doctor had been pleased with his analysis. Alex hoped the same approach would work with the rest of the staff.

A silent waiter appeared with dinner for Alex and Yermalov both, and the brief interruption gave him a chance to think about his answer. By the time the waiter was gone again, he felt a little more confident meeting Ross' eyes.

"You want the students to do well. You have an entire school on a private island for just one small class. The teachers are good, because Dr Three doesn't seem like someone who accepts less than perfect. Either it's a very expensive school, and the students are only here because it's worth it, or it's free and you only pick the best of the best."

Alex's school in Geneva had been for mostly rich kids, he knew that now. Alex hadn't been there on a scholarship but his parents also hadn't been rich the way some of his classmates had been. Helsinki had been a huge change but he had liked it. It was less formal. More relaxed. And no one bragged about what their parents did, not the way some of the kids in Geneva had done.

This school reminded him of Geneva and that was the answer he went with. It wasn't the same at all, it was for adults training to be killers, but … the idea was the same. Small classes, good teachers, lots of individual attention. That was how his mum had described it when she had talked about his new school in Helsinki and the differences before he had started.

Ross barked a laugh. Binnag just smiled. Alex took that as approval.

"Sharp kid," Ross said. "No surprise from Hunter's boy. Eat! You're going to need that energy to keep up with the students tomorrow!"

Easier said than done. The nausea was right back at that reminder, and the food on the plate – some sort of pasta and seafood – was something he would normally have loved, but right now just the thought of food was enough to make him sick.

He still picked up the correct knife and fork and forced himself to take a bite. At least eating would give him an excuse not to be social.

The small bite was enough to remind his stomach that nausea or not, it was still hungry and the lingering effects of the drugs were mostly gone. The second bite was bigger and a little more enthusiastic and for a brief while Alex focused on the food while the quiet murmur of voices filled the room around him.

There was Coke in his glass – his favourite brand, too, which just reminded him of how much they seemed to know about him – and a glass of white wine next to it that he didn't touch.

It really was just like an expensive restaurant but Alex supposed that for a school that used an entire private island to teach seven students, expensive dining was the least of it.

Alex hadn't been to that sort of restaurant since Geneva but he dug deep for the manners he remembered and kept a close eye on the people around him for anything he might do wrong. Forks, knives, the proper way to hold the glasses, the right way to eat the pasta … based on the smile Binnag gave him, she probably knew what he was doing.

"Malagosto offers a broader education than you might imagine," she said and confirmed his suspicion. "One of the classes is essentially finishing school for ambitious young assassins. Manners, social skills, fashion, art, how to handle oneself in wealthier circles – everything one might need to blend in with the upper class. Dining like this offers the students a chance to practice this in safe surroundings. But with your upbringing, you would have a much better foundation than most of our students."

She smiled. It was probably meant to be friendly, but Alex didn't feel reassured in the least. Just nodded and focused on his food again.

She treated him like a potential student, not like a hostage. Did she know the truth? Did she even care? Alex didn't know. It could have been either. Yermalov had obviously known. The rest had to as well, didn't they? To make sure Alex wouldn't try to escape. That thought just made her and Ross' friendliness that much creepier.

Dinner dragged on. The conversation at the table was mostly Binnag and Ross discussing current events, half of which Alex knew nothing about, with the occasional comment from Alex when they asked him directly about something. Yermalov didn't talk. Something about that felt weirdly reassuring. Like there was at least one person who didn't try to pretend everything was normal.

Alex had lost any sense of time when he was finally allowed to leave. He had been completely focused on playing the role he had been told to, and everything else had been pushed down the list. His guess was that it was past nine. All he knew was that he was exhausted from the kidnapping and the drugs and everything and all he wanted was to be left alone.

Yermalov still followed him to his room. Maybe to make sure Alex didn't try to escape. Maybe to make sure he wouldn't get lost. Alex was too tired to want to think about it.

He was glad the man was there to remember the code for the door, though. Alex wasn't actually sure he could have remembered himself.

He turned on the lights. The room looked exactly the way he had left it … except for a small bundle on the bed that Alex didn't spot until he moved closer. It looked like clothes. Not like the clothes someone had already left for him, which all looked a little like a uniform, but – softer. Normal. A moment later, he realised the colour was familiar, too. It was one of his mum's favourites.

The door closed behind him. Yermalov was still there. Alex knew that had to be a bad sign. He still walked the last few steps and picked up the clothes -

- and he recognised the cardigan at the same time as the faint scent of his mum's perfume reached him.

Tears stung in his eyes and he wiped them away, beyond caring what Yermalov might think as he held the cardigan tight to his chest.

His mum was somewhere in Venice, his mum and Matilda, and he didn't want them anywhere near the doctor or anyone on the island but at the same time, he wanted to see them again so badly that it hurt. He wanted a hug, he wanted to hold Matilda, he wanted to make sure they were okay, he wanted to watch stupid cartoons and children's song he was too old for, and he was alone and no matter what that doctor said, he had no idea if he would ever see them again.

Alex didn't speak. Neither did Yermalov. Eventually Alex forced himself to let go and he carefully folded the cardigan before he put it back on the bed. He wanted it to look nice when he could give it back to his mum.

"Politics," Yermalov finally said with the same scorn in his voice that Alex had heard before. "Your mother and sister will be safe. SCORPIA has committed to the story that Hunter always worked for them. The most convincing proof of this would be for the world to see his wife and children thriving with SCORPIA. The best schooling money can buy for your sister and yourself. A SCORPIA-approved career later on. A gilded cage for your mother and approved pastimes for her cooperation."

Politics. It sounded awful, all of it, and made him feel even more claustrophobic than he already did. It all sounded so final. Like it had all been decided and they had nothing to say about it at all. And maybe they didn't, because right now it seemed like SCORPIA held all the cards.

Yermalov hadn't said that his dad would be safe, either, just that his mum and Matilda would be. Alex didn't ask. Yermalov didn't elaborate.

"Brush your teeth. Sleep. Don't stay up," the man instructed instead. "You need to be dressed and ready by six. Morning run, then breakfast. Classes do not slow down for students. Eat enough to last you until noon."

Another awful reminder, because there had been so many books and he'd barely had half an hour to himself and -

"I haven't done my homework." The thought was a surge of nausea and exhaustion. He was so tired his eyes hurt but he had classes in the morning and he hadn't even opened the books and it was too much and no time to do it in. "The books -"

"- will wait."

Yermalov sounded so sure. All Alex could think about were his teachers in Geneva and how strict they had been about homework and if the teachers here were anything like that -

"Classes are practical," Yermalov continued and cut through Alex's frantic thoughts. "Students are expected to read up on the theory in their own time. No one will expect you to know lessons you should not have needed to learn for another decade. Read the relevant chapters if you have time but sleep has priority."

The nausea was still there but Alex nodded. It was apparently good enough, because Yermalov gave him a curt nod in turn and left.

Once more, Alex was alone. For long seconds, he just stared at the closed door. Then he forced himself to move over and lock it.

Toothbrush. Sleep. He could do that.

Ten minutes later found him on the bed. It was large but a little too tall and a little too firm, and the bedding was heavy and didn't help his claustrophobia at all. Like the shower, the bed had been made for adults, not for him.

It was okay. He could manage. He just had to sleep there, and he was so tired, he could have slept on the floor.

Alex set the alarm on the bedside table and curled up under the covers, his mum's cardigan neatly folded on the other side of the massive bed.

He was asleep before he could change his mind and stay up to study instead.

Malagosto came to life long before the sun crept over the horizon. At five, the outdoor lights switched from their dim night state – little more than the barest of courtesies to anyone who might be up unusually late or early – to something that actually lit up more than just the paths. The larger lights for the courtyard were still dark but would turn on later to accommodate the morning workout.

John could see it all from his room. Well, 'room' was a little generous. It had been a monastic cell once, but that was still leagues better than the actual cells that Malagosto also housed. A simple but comfortable bed, an equally simple antique desk and chair, and a lamp that had been chosen to complement the style. No TV and no computer, though there were plugs for both.

He had spent most of the evening after his talk with Three picking Dwale's brain for anything useful about the school and the changes since his own time there. There were several neat stacks of papers on the desk, but numbers and reports could only tell him so much. Dwale, who had gone through the school well after John, had been able to fill in some of the blanks John knew he would find. The things Dwale had found himself lacking in the field. The parts of the curriculum that had never been useful. The parts of the day-to-day routine that worked and the parts that had somehow, for whatever reason, never clicked just right. It was only one former student's impressions but every bit of it would help.

John had gone over the room the moment he had been left alone, as careful and thorough as he would have been on any job. Three would know, of course, there was surveillance, but the doctor would have been surprised and probably disappointed if John hadn't taken the time to do it, anyway. He had known a few of the rooms existed but had never actually seen them himself. Sometimes they were used if a guest instructor was a less-than-social type who wanted to be left alone and have at least the illusion of privacy. Sometimes a promising student that struggled academically would be given the chance to catch up away from other distractions. And sometimes they obviously acted as a slightly more polite version of Three's cells for potential future instructors that attended their job interview under duress.

The room was on ground level in a corner of the building with a view of the courtyard. The walls were solid stone, thick and soundproof. Like the rest of the island, the monastery looked like a ruin from the outside but the core of it was centuries old and built to last. The only window in the room had the distinct colour of one-way glass; meant to look out of the room but make it impossible to peer in from the outside. It was also thick; the sound when John knocked on it left little doubt about that. Soundproof, too, then. Three's reasons behind the choice of room wasn't lost on John. If Alex attended classes, he would pass by outside. He would be in the courtyard for physical training. He would be so close that John would almost be able to reach out and touch him. They would be separated by mere yards, but behind soundproof glass and a mirror finish, it might as well have been an ocean.

John could have slept longer. He could make do with four or five hours of sleep but unlike Yassen, it wasn't his default. He needed the time, though, and he wanted to see as much as possible of the students outside. On a practical level, to maybe give him a slight edge on the test that Three had given him. On a more emotional one, because Alex would be out there with the students. Because he would be able to see for himself that his son was … as well as he could be, given the circumstances.

At five-twenty, the door opened and one of Malagosto's silent kitchen staff arrived with a tray. The surveillance was useful for that, at least.

The man set up breakfast with quick, efficient motions. He didn't talk and John didn't expect him to. In his time on the island, the kitchen staff had always been picked for their competence and discretion and he didn't expect that to have changed. They were expected to do their job, ask no questions not directly related to their responsibilities, and show no curiosity about the school or the inhabitants on the island, and they were generously compensated in return.

Malagosto's lower-ranking employees had seen a lot of students disappear and never return, had probably even seen some of those graves dug, and never blinked.

The man stepped back and picked up the tray.

"Would that be all, sir?"

"Yes, thank you," John agreed. The food looked delicious but he doubted he would enjoy it. The important things were there. Coffee and something substantial enough to keep him going. The rest didn't really make a difference.

The man left. As John started on his breakfast, the courtyard beyond the thick glass lit up as the floodlights blazed to life.

John grabbed the first report on the table but he didn't open it. The entire situation had been set up by Three but he didn't care. For now, he would take the chance to finish his breakfast as he kept an eye on the courtyard and maybe, just maybe, he would catch a glimpse of Alex. A world and five inches of solid glass removed from him but alive and reasonably safe, and that was all John could hope for at the heart of SCORPIA.

Alex's alarm went off at five-thirty. He should have been up sooner and he knew it but he was too tired and had needed the sleep.

There were a lot of things Alex needed but he was so exhausted he could almost taste it, like wool in the back of his mouth, and sleep came first.

He wanted to stay in bed. He wanted to go back to sleep and wake up in another five hours and realise it was all a bad dream. He didn't, and he couldn't, and instead he forced himself to get up and moving.

The clothes were on the chair where he had left them the night before, along with a bottle of water and an energy bar of some sort that he had found in the basket of snacks. Morning run at six, Yermalov had said. Then breakfast. Alex just hoped the candy bar, energy bar, whatever was in it, would help wake him up a little without making him want to throw up when he had to run.

Cold water on his face woke him up a little more. Then the energy bar, which mostly tasted like cheap chocolate and peanuts. Finally the workout clothes. All of them fit him, even the shoes, and Alex resolutely refused to think about it.

A quick check of the code to his room, because he was still terrified of forgetting it, and he was out the door ten minutes to six – enough time to find his way to the courtyard and not be late.

As it turned out, he didn't need to. Yermalov was already waiting outside the door.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Yermalov seemed to look for something as he watched him, but Alex couldn't even begin to guess what it was.

Somewhere on the floor below, a door opened. Footsteps appeared, then faded away again as one of the students went outside. Finally, Yermalov broke the silence.

"You are nine. You will not be able to keep up with the adult students. Do your best, anyway."

It seemed more like a vague attempt to calm him down than an order, but Alex had no real idea. It wasn't like it was something he didn't already know. He wasn't sure what to say to it, either. Instead he just nodded. There wasn't anything else he could do. Try his best. Try to live up to everyone's expectations. Fall miserably behind, anyway.

He already regretted eating the candy bar.

It was barely past six when Helen woke up to Matilda half-crawling, half-flopping against her side. She instinctively wrapped an arm around her and held a little tighter as everything that had happened came flooding back.

The room was silent. It was still dark, and only the occasional muted sounds from the city beyond the old walls revealed that they weren't entirely alone in the world.

Six was better than Helen had expected given how early Matilda had fallen asleep. She would take any small mercy she could find.

"TV, mama," Matilda demanded.

Any other day, Helen might have argued. As it was, she reached for the remote she had already made sure was within reach and turned on the TV that had been neatly hidden inside an antique-looking cabinet on the wall.

The room lit up, so bright it almost hurt. Helen flipped through the channels, looking for anything useful. Some of the channels were familiar from Geneva, some were not. Morning news, weather, some American drama series, cartoons meant for older kids, international news … eventually she stumbled over an Italian version of Sesame Street and settled for that. Matilda settled down with her.

A few minutes later, the door opened and one of the domestic workers slipped silently inside. Helen didn't recognise him but he had the same distinct sense of competence as several other people she had seen so far in the palatial home. Maybe not in John and Yassen's league but dangerous people all the same.

"Mrs Rider," he greeted her quietly, just enough to carry over the sound of the TV. Matilda glanced over, then ignored him in favour of better entertainment. "Mrs Rothman is unavailable at the moment but she would like to speak with you later today. Your luggage has been delivered to the adjoining room. Would you like some breakfast?"

"Please," Helen said, more for Matilda's sake and something to distract herself with than any real desire for food. "Thank you."

The man vanished outside for a moment, then returned with a small cart loaded with a generous amount of food. Coffee, that was the first thing she spotted. Bread, pastries, cut fruit, and several kinds of juice. Cereal, muesli, and milk, and a myriad of intricate little bowls and plates with an assortment of butter, jams, honey, and what looked like Nutella. Alex would have been delighted, and that thought brought the whole flood of worry back to settle around her heart as a steel vice.

Alex was out there somewhere. So close and so far and he was entirely alone. Alone and afraid, and there was nothing she could do. Nothing. Just go along with Rothman's plan, whatever it was, and hope it would keep her children safe. Three days, Rothman had said, and Alex would be back with her. Even that was no guarantee. Would she see John again? She didn't know that, either.

Helen held Matilda a little tighter and watched as the man arranged their breakfast on the ornate table in the room. It felt like an expensive hotel more than someone's home; all quiet, formal efficiency. How often did Rothman have quests she allowed to stay over? Probably not often. It was a house meant for hosting and was undoubtedly used frequently for that, but Rothman's work was not the sort that fostered enough trust to let someone simply borrow a bed to save on a hotel room or just enjoy some time together. Friendship alone would be risky enough and Helen doubted there was any of that to be found with SCORPIA, either. Useful acquaintances, certainly, perhaps even friendly colleagues, but not friends. Not someone actually trusted to stay under the same roof for any longer than a social event.

The man left. Matilda stirred enough to focus on the table rather than the TV.

"Bread, mama," she said. "With butter."

Butter, Helen knew, meaning as much as she would let her determined offspring get away with. An entire brick of it, if Matilda had things her way.

"And milk?" she offered.

"And milk," Matilda agreed.

Inside, the murmur of Italian voices carried from the TV, the show both familiar and foreign at the same time.

Outside, the day inched on, slow and relentless.

At a little past eleven in the morning, Yassen's flight departed from Karachi.

There was no easy route home. It would take two layovers and thirty-something hours to get to Tallinn, then an additional five hours to get to Helsinki and the current Rider home. He knew better than to risk a direct flight to Helsinki, but a flight to Tallinn and by ferry the rest of the way would do the job just as well … assuming, of course, no delays long enough to cause him to miss a flight or his ferry.

It was how it would have to be. It had been three in the afternoon the day before when the SMS had reached Yassen's phone. He had stilled the moment he recognised the number – danger, do not return – and the sudden spike of emotion had been confirmed by the message that followed.

You have 3 missed calls.

It had not been a mistake, then. It was significantly less likely to be, at least, with the three agreed-upon calls.

Yassen had known what it meant in practical terms as well. He had to assume the worst: that his operation – or what Hunter knew of it – was compromised and that he was about to become a target himself.

The uneasy situation in Pakistan offered some measure of protection. Yassen had risked the extra hours to finish up the job he had been paid for – more rushed than he would normally have risked, but doable – and then focused on the situation at hand.

Hunter and his family were compromised. Yassen was in Karachi. By the time he got back to Helsinki, any evidence would be gone if the attackers had been even remotely competent. Based on the fact that Hunter had been alive to send the warning but not add anything more, Yassen suspected someone had wanted them alive, which implied at least some degree of skills.

First step, Helsinki. Then … draw on his contacts and learn what he could through those means, because he doubted there would be anything left to go on.

Hunter was a valuable target. Sooner or later, his location would become known and Yassen's options would expand. Until then, he had to trust that the man could keep himself and Helen and their children alive and reasonably safe.

Hunter was one of the best in the world for a reason. Helen was a practical woman with a ruthless streak to rival him. Alex had already been trained well beyond any normal nine-year-old.

Yassen would trust in those skills now, because for thirty-something hours, there would be nothing else he could do.