Chapter One

He was thirteen, young enough for curiosity to still get the better of him. She was eleven, and the nicest thing Illumi had ever seen.

But that hardly seems like the right place to start – the first meeting, leaving out all the hours Illumi had spent wondering about her beforehand.

A few times, his mother had shown him photographs, blurry things that looked too old to matter much. The Flaminia family. Like dolls. Illumi had stolen the photos away surreptitiously. Stowed them beneath his mattress. And as the weeks had turned to days had turned to hours, he had considered them with special interest. The Flaminia family. His parents had never hosted guests on Kukuroo Mountain before. He had never met anyone his own age before. And though he knew he should not have been so fascinated as he was, Illumi could not help the way he stared at the photographs or how he listened to his mother's crooning: Such a lovely little girl! And the twins, dazzling. Don't you think so, Lumi? My dear? You're sure to like them.

She, such a 'lovely little girl', didn't look like an assassin. Maybe that was the first thing Illumi noticed. Too small. Too smiley. Her siblings were harsh in the photographs – the twins, with razor-thin lips and venomous eyes – while the mothers – two of them, and no father, another curiosity to Illumi – looked on in a sort of smirking disdain. Pretty, certainly. A quintet of primped, peculiar things in lush material and glossy light.

Apparently they were excellent killers too: second to Illumi's family, of course, but specializing in much flashier assassinations. Not as efficient as the Zoldycks; Illumi knew how impractical their methods were. However, it got the attention of high-ranking clients.

Mother also knew one of the Flaminias from childhood. Which was why they were coming to visit, supposedly, and why the children would train with Illumi and Milluki for a few weeks. Father told them both that the Flaminias likely wouldn't be able to keep up with their usual training, and so things would be toned down for the duration of The Visit. Fortunately, it gave Father more time to spend on Killua, who was three then – unfortunately, Illumi wouldn't be able to help. He would have to entertain the guests when they had free-time.

What did he know about spending time with children his age?

What was he supposed to do to keep the girl in the photograph – irritatingly sugar-sweet smile, too wide, too genuine – and her siblings 'entertained'?

Grandfather suggested board games. Illumi didn't like board games much. Milluki, ten years old, insisted on computer games. Illumi didn't like computer games either.

The Visit drew nearer with unapologetic slowness, and Illumi spent one night too many stewing over the impending arrival. By now, the photographs were crinkled from his fingers' probing. The girl's face had become a familiar apparition, rearing itself intrusively and unexpectedly in Illumi's mind. Sometimes when he woke up in the mornings. Always when he went to sleep, the nighttime darkness somehow full of a girl he hadn't met yet.

Her name was Chiara.

Illumi didn't think much of how she – the thought of her – made his stomach go weird.

Anyway.

That afternoon, the mansion was aflurry. The butlers were rather more harried than usual, making a bigger fuss about the mansion's security and extra bedding and other issues of hospitality – generally doing a lesser job of staying out of Illumi's way. Training had been called off for the day. Illumi wasn't expected anywhere until dinnertime. And so he sought silence amongst the thick press of the garden, the grass crisp with the previous night's rain, the trees a foreboding wall around him. From here, it was almost impossible to see the mansion, easy to imagine being lost. Hidden. It was a stupid thing Illumi liked to do sometimes: pretend he was missing.

Somewhere behind the trees, there was a hole he had started digging, and sometimes he would press himself into it. Small ball. Knees to chest, head to knees. He would dig until the hole was as deep as his thighs, then his stomach, then his shoulders, until he could stand straight and not have even the topmost part of his head exposed. What exactly the appeal was, he couldn't say. But the cool was nice. The claustrophobic closeness of it. Being underground. As long as he didn't get too dirty or soil his wounds – Mother and Father wouldn't bother treating the infections.

Illumi went there now, and sat at the edge of his hole. How much deeper would he have to dig before he wouldn't be able to see the bottom? Would he be able to hold his breath long enough to bury himself? Probably. And how long would the butlers be made to leave him there? Long enough, it was likely, for his lungs to seethe and for the fantasy to become a little less enjoyable.

Mindlessly, Illumi plucked at the grass around him. Flimsy, wet. Muddy in places.

Nearby, there was the faint squelching of footsteps. It drew closer, and then receded. Drew closer again. Some time had passed, and Illumi thought that perhaps it was one of the butlers that had been sent to fetch him, to tell him his mother wanted him dressed and ready and waiting (on his bed, fancy pants had been laid out, and he was still supposed to wrap the gifts Mother had ordered for the twins). But nobody came, and so Illumi paid no attention to the sounds as they swelled and disappeared. Tap-tap-tap-nothing. Flutters of aura across Illumi's skin, like pins and needles. Tap-tap-tap-nothing.

And then the voice was right behind him. "What-cha doing?"

So close, he almost felt surprised, and struggled not to look so as he looked over his shoulder.

She was just as small as in her photographs, but undeniably older. Chiara Flaminia. Dress like a yellow dahlia. Face white and wide with curiosity, two braids tumbling like wisteria down her shoulders. Nothing of the assassin – shockingly out of place against the dense green-blackness of the trees, pale as a pearl in shards of sunlight.

Illumi stared.

Chiara Flaminia cocked her head sweetly. "Are you Illumi-kun?"

"Yes."

She smiled small. "I'm Chiara."

"I know."

"You're all alone. Are you waiting for somebody?"

"No."

"Oh." She seemed oddly delighted; her smile curled deeper into a rosy bow (and at the sight of it, Illumi's stomach sizzled strangely). "Well then," she said, "do you want to play hide-and-seek with me? My brother is counting to four hundred. We could hide in that hole together." She looked around. "Or somewhere else. You probably know all the best hiding spots, right? Your garden is very big. I bet we could hide somewhere my brother won't find us for ages. Hmm? Do you want to?"

The more Illumi looked at her, the more a sick, dizzy feeling reared itself within him. Pressing outwards through his ribcage. Rising like bile into his throat. So this was her, he realised. This was her. Small nose like a seashell. Raised eyebrows like a curious deer. He didn't like the way she looked at him – like he was as much a plaything to her as she was a doll to him. He didn't like the wordless shock of this first meeting. An accident. A few hours too early (why were they here so soon?), probably more unprepared than his parents would have liked. Than he would have liked. And so Illumi did the only reasonable thing.

He clasped a fistful of dirt. He threw.

And before he could see the look on Chiara Flaminia's face, Illumi made a run for it.