We don’t encounter any of the house’s other occupants until we’re safely upstairs. My dad’s apartment is small: a sitting room, a bedroom, a tiny bathroom and kitchen and an even tinier study, barely larger than a cupboard.

  And, notably, only one double bed. I don’t quite manage to hide my grimace at that.

  “Sorry,” my dad says. “But money isn’t easy right now. It’ll get a lot better once – well – “

  Once the divorce is settled, he means. I know my parents had some savings, but not how much or what would have happened to them by now. Most of their wealth consists of the house currently occupied by my mother.

  “You can have the bed,” he continues. “I’ll sleep on the sofa while you’re here.”

  That offer makes whatever anger or resentment I was feeling vanish almost instantly. I hadn’t even considered the possibility: it seemed obvious that he’d be taking the bed. It’s his house, after all, while I’m… while I’m just visiting. I don’t belong here. Stars.

  I blink a few times. I appreciate the offer. I guess it’s his way of trying to make amends. I guess it’s pretty effective. “I – thank you for the offer – but please, really, it’s okay. I can handle the sofa for a few weeks.”

  “You shouldn’t have to sleep on the sofa in your own home.”

  This isn’t my home. I don’t say it, but we both know I’m thinking it. “Nor should you,” I say instead.

  “Tallulah – “

  I don’t quite know what to say, so I opt for silence.

  “You’re not even sixteen,” my dad says after a moment’s hesitation. “I know you’ve grown up so much these last few months, and I’m so proud of you for it. But… you don’t have to be an adult here. Let me take care of you. Please?”

  It’s not quite as simple as he’s making it sound. This growing up isn’t something that can be reversed or forgotten about, even for a few weeks. I know now that I can’t rely on adults to have all the right answers or make all the right decisions. I know now that my dad can’t fix all my problems or make them go away.

  What I don’t know is how I’m supposed to explain that to him. “All right,” I say instead. “But I’ll swap with you if you ever want to.”

  “I won’t. But thanks. The bedroom is yours, then. I’ve already moved my things out, so feel free to take some time to unpack and settle in. And… if there’s anything I can do for you, any way I can help… just say the words.”

  That’s as good an opportunity as I’m going to get to bring up what I need his help for. And yet I find myself hesitating. Because the child I was, the child he still thinks I am, would never do something like this. He’s not going to like it.

  I can’t give up on my project because I’m too afraid to have an honest conversation with my own father. “Well, since you should mention it…” I take a deep breath. “I intend to file a legal claim that a Malaina has been killed unjustly under Section Twelve of the Qualification for Malaina Work Bill. And I would like Roberts and Bryant to assist me in this matter.”

  He freezes, his expression a mixture of shock and horror. “Tallulah – “

  “Please?” I say belatedly.

  He laughs bitterly. “You’d think I’d have learnt to choose my words carefully by now. When I said anything, I didn’t think you’d come up with something like this. You are serious?”

  “Completely.”

  “…why? Has someone you know – “

  “No,” I say. My mind flashes to Edward and I force myself to not even contemplate that possibility. “But – it’s not impossible. That it could be one of my friends, even me. And – even if it isn’t, it’s still unjust.”

  “Of course it is,” he agrees at once. “But you have to think of the practicalities. It’s not just as simple as – “

  “I know. I have records of all such cases from the past five years, which I intend to search through to find the one we have the best chance of winning. Electra James has agreed to be an expert witness in our case. And – if you’re concerned about money, that can be dealt with as well.”

  He doesn’t look convinced. “Tallulah – you shouldn’t – who persuaded you to do this?”

  “No-one. It’s my own decision.” I doubt my words even as I say them, because Electra. She was the one who told me that this law even existed, in the context she did, knowing me as well as she did. And she’s manipulative enough that this could very well be a scheme of hers.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I don’t care. It’s the right thing to do regardless.

  “You understand what you’re getting yourself into?”

  “Yes,” I lie. I understand enough to realise it could be a terrible mistake, to have some idea of what I’m getting myself into. But it could also lead to things really changing for the better, even if just in one small way. It’s worth it.

  “I – it could be dangerous. You’re my daughter. I want to protect you.”

  “It’s too late.” I realise a moment later I’ve spoken aloud. I see him flinch and know that I’ve hurt him.

  But I’ve said it now. It’s out in the open. And though I long to back down and apologise and make it go away… maybe it needed to be said.

  “You must have some idea what I’ve dealt with recently. Spending weeks in isolation and being on trial for my freedom. Nearly getting killed in a riot. Having my private life published for the world to see. Everyone wanting a piece of my story and not caring about the human being behind it. How is this worse than any of that?”

  I can’t quite read his expression; it’s somewhere between sadness and anger, I think. “You think I don’t already know I’ve failed you?” he asks, tone perfectly level. “You think I haven’t spent weeks lying awake at night, wondering whether if I’d just had a little more time for you things would have been different? You think I don’t already know that all of this is my fault?”

  So he is angry – just not with me. “I don’t think it would have changed anything,” I say. “Not really. Maybe I wouldn’t have Fallen when I did, but… I never belonged at Genford. I never really wanted what you and – Mother – decided I should want.”

  I’ve said it now, I suppose. Not too long ago those words would have been impossible, but now it feels almost obvious. I’m wondering how I didn’t figure it out a long time ago.

  “And I never realised that. I should have.”

  I can’t argue with that. He’s right.

  “I want to make it up to you, Tallulah. I want to be a good father. And you’re telling me it’s too late.”

  I suppose I am, really. I just can’t bring myself to say the words.

  “What am I supposed to do?” he asks softly.

  There’s no right answer to that question. So I give him the true one instead: “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” He sighs. “I… I’ll think about it, what you asked me for. I know it’s important to you, but…”

  At least he’s not just flatly refusing. I expected him to, after seeing his reaction. “I appreciate that.”

  “If I refuse,” he says, “what will you do?”

  Find another lawyer and make it work anyway. It won’t be easy, but with Edward’s connections it should at least be possible, even if whoever I end up working with is only in it for the money. This would be a lot easier with his help, but I don’t need him.

  Except that’s not the point of his question. If he refuses, it’s because he doesn’t want me putting myself in danger by doing this. It means that by doing it anyway, I’d be defying him. Hurting him.

  I want so badly to tell him I’d give it up if he asked me to. To tell him what he wants to hear.

  But I don’t know if it’s true.

  I don’t know what the right answer is. My duty to and love for my father despite his failures, or my commitment to justice and making things better for Malaina. I couldn’t give up either without sacrificing a part of myself.

  “Please,” I say, “don’t make me have to decide that.”

  He grimaces. “Like I said. I’ll think about it. I can’t make the decision without Simon anyway.”

  True enough. Pushing any further now is unlikely to end well, I can tell. “I suppose I should go and unpack, then. Unless there’s anything you wanted?”

  It’s a clumsy way to change the conversation topic, but it does the trick. Mostly because he doesn’t want to continue this conversation any more than I do.

  “No. No, there’s nothing I want. Welcome home, Tallulah.”

  I wish his words felt like the truth.

  There’s a bookcase in my dad’s room – my room, now, sort of. He’s not much of a reader, and all the legal texts are kept at the office, so I’m confused about it at first. Then I stare at the books’ titles, and realise what they are.

  History books. My history books, the entirety of my collection from back home.

  He brought them with him. Amidst the pain of leaving his wife and knowing he might never return, he saved my books for me. I hadn’t thought about them for months, true, but I would have realised that my mother had them. Would have realised that I wouldn’t ever see them again unless I could find the courage to confront her.

  But he’s saved me from that now. He claims he’s a failure of a father, and maybe he is in some ways. This, though? This is more than I had any right to expect of him. I run my hands over their spines, enjoying the familiar feeling, savouring this unexpected reunion.

  I’m surprised my mother didn’t destroy them, really. Stars, she threatened to often enough over the years; I would have expected that now I’ve finally broken away from her she’d… but no.

  Did they remind her of the daughter she’d lost? Does part of her still want me to be happy? She does love me, I know, even if it feels like she barely knew her own daughter.

  “It doesn’t change anything,” I realise. I’m not going back. I’m better off without her, even if it hurts to admit that to myself.

  I take in the room properly. It’s sparse and undecorated, though I do recognise the rug on the floor as one from my dad’s room back home. I’m not quite sure what it says about him that all he brought was one rug and my books.

  I don’t have many decorations of my own either; unpacking takes me less than ten minutes. The room isn’t set up to be used as an improvised study, but I got on well enough leaving books and paper in my trunk back at the Academy that I don’t think it’ll be a problem.

  I slide A History of the Kings of Rasin into a space on the shelf besides the rest of my collection. Then I slide it back out again. I was in the middle of a particularly interesting part earlier (not that I don’t already have it practically memorised, but still). Though it’s more a case of wanting something to occupy my mind, because I am not sure I like what my unoccupied mind would do right now. Too many things to worry about, not enough I can do about them, not enough people I can talk to about them.

  I curl up on my dad’s bed with the book and escape into the past.