December came to London wrapped in fog and frost, turning the city into a landscape of ghosts. The streets of Pemberton Lane disappeared into white greyness by mid-afternoon, and the streetlamps burned all day long, struggling to pierce the gloom.
Finn had been at Arnold Bisby's flat for three weeks, and in that time, he had learned a great deal about his temporary guardian. He had learned that Mr. Bisby drank gin from the moment he woke up until the moment he fell asleep in his armchair. He had learned that Mr. Bisby had once been a teacher—of what, Finn couldn't quite determine, but the walls were lined with books that suggested a learned man—and that something had gone terribly wrong in his life, something that had left him bitter and alone and angry at the world. He had learned that Mr. Bisby's canary, whose name was Gilbert, had not sung in three years and probably never would again.
And he had learned that Mr. Bisby was afraid of him.
This last discovery had come as a surprise. Finn was used to being ignored, or tolerated, or occasionally resented. But fear was new. And yet it was unmistakable: the way Mr. Bisby's eyes skittered away whenever Finn entered a room, the way his hands trembled slightly when Finn came too close, the way he made excuses to leave whenever they found themselves alone together.
It made no sense. Finn was eleven years old and barely five feet tall. He was quiet and polite and did his best to stay out of the way. There was nothing about him that should inspire fear in anyone.
And yet.
Sometimes, when he caught his reflection in the dark glass of the window, he understood. His eyes—those pale silver eyes that had always set him apart from the other children at the orphanage—seemed to catch the light in ways that weren't quite natural. They seemed to glow, just slightly, as if there were something burning behind them, something that couldn't quite be contained.
He'd learned to keep his gaze lowered, to look at people's chins instead of their eyes, to avoid drawing attention to the strangeness that he couldn't explain and couldn't change.
On the morning of December 17th, Finn woke to find something unusual on the windowsill of the tiny kitchen where he ate his breakfast of bread and jam.
It was a letter.
This was unusual for several reasons. First, no one wrote to Finn. He had no family, no friends outside the orphanage, no one who would have any reason to send him mail. Second, the kitchen was on the third floor, and the window was closed. There was no way a letter could have been delivered through it. And third, the letter was moving.
Finn blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. The letter was still there, a square of yellowed parchment sealed with a blob of dark red wax. And it was definitely moving—shifting slightly from side to side, as if it were impatient to be opened.
He reached out a hand toward it, then hesitated. In his experience, things that moved on their own were usually best left alone. But curiosity, that old enemy, got the better of him. He picked up the letter.
The moment his fingers touched the parchment, he felt a strange tingling sensation, like tiny electric shocks running up his arm. The seal—he could see now that it was stamped with an intricate design, something that looked like a tree with roots that spread into the shape of a compass—grew warm beneath his thumb.
He turned the letter over. On the front, written in elegant, old-fashioned script, were the words:
Finn Merton
c/o Mr. Arnold Bisby
7 Pemberton Lane
London
Third Floor
He stared at the writing for a long moment. The ink seemed to shimmer faintly, as if it were still wet, still being written. And then, before he could think better of it, he broke the seal.
The parchment unfolded itself, spreading open like a flower, and Finn read:
Dear Finn,
If you are reading this, then you have come into your inheritance earlier than expected. Do not be alarmed. The things you are about to learn will seem strange, even impossible, but I assure you they are true. You are not what you think you are. You are not where you belong. There is a world beyond the one you know, and you have a place in it.
I cannot tell you everything. Not yet. The danger is too great, and there are those who would use you if they knew what you could become. But I can tell you this: your mother did not die. She was taken. And the man who took her is looking for you.
You must leave London. You must go to a place called Lumina, a city hidden from ordinary eyes, where those like us live and learn and prepare. To find it, you must follow the compass that has been sleeping in your blood since the day you were born.
Trust no one. Not yet. Not until you understand.
I will find you when I can.
Yours in haste,
E.
Finn read the letter three times. Then he read it a fourth time, trying to make sense of the words, trying to find the joke, the trick, the explanation that would make everything ordinary again.
But there was no explanation. Only the parchment in his hands, the warm imprint of the seal on his thumb, and the strange, tingling sensation that hadn't quite faded.
His mother didn't die. She was taken.
The words echoed in his mind, bouncing off the walls of his understanding, refusing to settle into any meaning he could grasp. For as long as he could remember, he'd been told that his mother was dead. That was the story. That was the truth. That was the foundation upon which his entire life had been built.
And now this letter was telling him that everything he knew was a lie.
He looked up from the parchment and found himself staring at his reflection in the kitchen window. His silver eyes seemed brighter than usual, almost luminous, and for a moment he thought he saw something else in the glass—a face, perhaps, or a shape, hovering just behind his own reflection.
But when he turned around, there was nothing there.
Mr. Bisby was not in his usual armchair that evening. He was standing at the window, staring out at the fog, his hands clasped behind his back in a way that made him look almost like the teacher he'd once been. When Finn entered the room, he didn't turn around.
"There's something I need to tell you," Mr. Bisby said. His voice was different—quieter, more sober, as if he hadn't been drinking. "Something I should have told you the night you arrived."
Finn waited. The letter was in his pocket, burning against his thigh.
"I knew your mother," Mr. Bisby said.
The words hit Finn like a physical blow. He staggered slightly, caught himself on the back of the sofa, and stared at the man's back.
"What?"
Mr. Bisby turned. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed, but for once he looked completely, utterly sober. "I knew Elena. Not well. But enough. Enough to know that she was special. Enough to know that you are, too."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I was afraid." The admission seemed to cost him something. His jaw tightened, and he looked away. "I've been afraid for eleven years, ever since she disappeared. Afraid that they'd come back. Afraid that they'd find you. Afraid that if I said anything, if I drew any attention, they'd finish what they started."
"Who?" Finn demanded. His voice was sharper than he'd intended, but he couldn't help it. After years of silence, years of not knowing, he needed answers. "Who took her? Who's looking for me?"
Mr. Bisby shook his head. "I don't know their names. I don't know where they come from. But I know what they are." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper. "They're like her. Like you. Not ordinary. Not normal. They have... powers. Abilities. Things that shouldn't exist."
The word echoed in the silence between them. Powers. Abilities.
Finn thought of the letter, still warm against his leg. He thought of the compass sleeping in his blood. He thought of his silver eyes and the way they sometimes seemed to glow.
"You knew," he said. "All this time, you knew what I am."
"I suspected." Mr. Bisby sank into his armchair, suddenly looking old and tired and defeated. "When I saw your eyes, I knew. Elena had eyes like yours. Silver. Strange. Beautiful. And she could do things, Finn. Extraordinary things. She could make flowers bloom in winter. She could light a room just by walking into it. She could..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "I thought if I kept you close, if I watched over you, I could keep you safe. But I was wrong. The letter this morning—that proves I was wrong. They've found you."
Finn pulled the letter from his pocket. "This isn't from them. It's from someone else. Someone who wants to help me."
Mr. Bisby took the parchment, his hands trembling, and read it quickly. When he looked up, his face was even paler than before. "E. Elena. Your mother. She's alive."
"We don't know that," Finn said, though his heart was pounding. "It could be a trick. The letter said not to trust anyone."
"It's not a trick." Mr. Bisby's voice was certain now, certain in a way it hadn't been all evening. "I'd recognise her handwriting anywhere. She wrote this, Finn. Your mother wrote this. She's alive, and she's trying to help you."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The fog pressed against the windows, muffling the sounds of the city, wrapping the flat in a cocoon of silence. Gilbert the canary stirred on his perch, opened his beak, and for the first time in three years, sang a single, perfect note.
Finn looked at Mr. Bisby. Mr. Bisby looked at Finn.
And then, without either of them knowing quite how it happened, they were both laughing—laughing with relief and fear and hope and all the emotions that had been bottled up for so long they'd forgotten they existed.
"What do I do?" Finn asked when the laughter finally subsided.
Mr. Bisby wiped his eyes—whether from laughter or tears, Finn couldn't tell—and sat up straighter in his chair. For the first time since Finn had met him, he looked like a man with a purpose. Like a teacher.
"You follow the compass," he said. "Just like the letter says. You go to Lumina, wherever that is, and you find out who you are and what you can become. And you don't look back."
"But how? I don't even know where to start."
Mr. Bisby smiled—a real smile, the first Finn had ever seen on his face. "Start at the beginning. What do you know about your mother? What did she leave you?"
Finn thought. His mother had left him very little: the suitcase, the photograph, the book about stars. And—
"The box," he said. "The wooden box I've never been able to open."
"Show me."
They went to Finn's cupboard-room, and Finn retrieved the small wooden box from his suitcase. It was about the size of his hand, made of dark, polished wood, with intricate carvings covering every surface—patterns that looked almost like writing, almost like pictures, but not quite either. There was no keyhole, no hinge visible, no obvious way to open it.
Mr. Bisby took the box and examined it carefully, running his fingers over the carvings. "Have you ever tried to open it?"
"A hundred times. It won't budge."
"Have you tried... with more than your hands?"
Finn frowned. "What do you mean?"
Mr. Bisby hesitated, then said, "Your mother could do things. Extraordinary things. Maybe you can, too. Maybe the box doesn't open with force. Maybe it opens with... intention."
He handed the box back to Finn, and Finn held it in his palms, feeling the warmth of the wood, the intricate patterns beneath his fingers. He thought about his mother—about the laughing woman in the photograph, about the voice he couldn't remember, about the arms that had once held him. He thought about the letter, about the words the compass that has been sleeping in your blood. He thought about all the times he'd felt different, strange, other—and wondered if maybe those feelings weren't weaknesses but strengths.
And then, without quite knowing how, he stopped thinking and simply... wanted.
He wanted the box to open. He wanted to know its secrets. He wanted to find his mother. He wanted to understand who he was and where he belonged. He wanted, more than anything, to stop being the orphan in the cupboard and start being Finn Merton, son of Elena, heir to something he couldn't yet name.
The box grew warm in his hands. The carvings began to glow—faintly at first, then brighter, a soft silver light that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. And then, with a sound like a key turning in a lock, the box sprang open.
Inside, nestled on a bed of velvet, lay a single object: a silver compass, its face etched with symbols Finn didn't recognise, its needle pointing not north but in a direction that seemed to shift and change as he watched.
And beneath the compass, written on a scrap of parchment in the same elegant script as the letter, were two words:
Follow me.