‘You’re not afraid,’ Meghana told him, asked him.
‘No,’ said Robin. But that was all he could say. He didn’t understand his heart himself. He felt resolved, but perhaps that was only the adrenaline; perhaps his fear and hesitation were only pushed temporarily behind a flimsy wall, which would shatter upon closer examination. ‘No, I’m not, I... just – I’m ready. But we won’t need everyone.’
‘Possibly the younger students...’ Professor Craft cleared her throat. ‘The ones who don’t know any silver-working, I mean. There’s no reason—’
‘I want to stay.’ Ibrahim cast Juliana an anxious glance. ‘I don’t... I don’t want to run.’
Juliana, pale as paper, said nothing.
‘There is a way out?’ Yusuf asked Robin.
‘There is. Abel’s men can ferry you out of the city, they’ve promised; they’re waiting for us. But you’ll have to go as soon as you can. And then you’ll have to run. I don’t think you’ll ever be able to stop running.’
‘There are no terms of amnesty?’ Meghana asked.
‘There are if you work for them,’ said Robin. ‘If you help them restore things back to how they were. Letty made that offer, she wanted you to know. But you’ll always be under their thumb. They’ll never let you go. She intimated as much – they’ll own you, and they’ll make you feel grateful for it.’
At this, Juliana reached out and took Ibrahim’s hand. He squeezed her fingers. Both their knuckles turned white, and the sight of this was so intimate that Robin blinked and glanced away.
‘But we can still run,’ said Yusuf.
‘You can still run,’ said Robin. ‘You wouldn’t be safe anywhere in this country—’
‘But we could go home.’
Victoire’s voice was so soft that they could barely hear her. ‘We can go home.’
Yusuf nodded, considered this a moment, and then moved to stand beside her.
And it was that simple, the determination of who fled and who died. Robin, Professor Craft, Meghana, Ibrahim, and Juliana on one side. Yusuf and Victoire on the other. No one pleaded or begged, and no one changed their minds.
‘So.’ Ibrahim looked very small. ‘When—’
‘Dawn,’ said Robin. ‘They’re coming at dawn.’
‘Then we’d better stack the bars,’ said Professor Craft. ‘And we’d better place them properly, if we only get one go.’
‘What’s the word?’ Abel Goodfellow demanded. ‘They’re inching right up to us.’
‘Send your men home,’ Robin said.
‘What?’
‘As quick as you can. Get out of the barricades and go on the run. There’s not much time. The Guards – they don’t care about casualties anymore.’
Abel registered this, then nodded. ‘Who’s coming with us?’
‘Just two. Yusuf. Victoire. They’re saying their goodbyes, they’ll be ready soon.’ Robin pulled a wrapped parcel from inside his jacket. ‘There’s also this.’
Abel must have read something in his face, heard something in his voice, because his eyes narrowed. ‘And what are the rest of you up to in there?’
‘I shouldn’t tell you.’
Abel raised the parcel. ‘Is this a suicide note?’
‘It’s a written record,’ said Robin. ‘Of everything that’s happened in this tower. What we stood for. There’s a second copy, but in case it gets lost – I know you’ll find some way to get this out there. Print it all over England. Tell them what we did. Make them remember us.’ Abel looked like he wanted to argue, but Robin shook his head. ‘Please, my mind’s made up, and there’s not much time. I can’t explain this, and I think it’s best if you don’t ask.’
Abel watched him for a moment, then seemed to think better of what it was he was about to say. ‘You’ll end this?’