"Those women that are troubled by what this author generously refers to as 'curiosity' should – and indeed, must – be chaperoned with a careful eye."

-Andrew Hamilton in 'A Treatise on the Duties of the Female Sex' (1797)

Clara's mother was trying to kill her.

Not like, outright. Even though she'd taken part in the Crimean War — a story that still came up at every family Christmas, usually after several bottles of red wine had been drunk — Marie Eaton still cried when she killed a beetle in the shower with a plastic flip-flop. She simply was not the type to murder her daughter. But Clara was convinced that, right now, her mother was trying to kill her via hairbrush.

Her mother gave a vicious tug. Clara winced.

"Mum," she said. "Shall I do it?"

Marie's lips were pursed in concentration. "I'm almost done."

She yanked the hairbrush again, uprooting a clump of blonde curls. Clara bit down hard on her tongue. Jesus.

She pulled a face. "Can you leave some of it on my head, please?"

Marie met her gaze in the mirror. "You'll have to cut it, anyways. It'll be too hot in Greece to keep it long."

She was right, of course, but Clara wasn't about to admit that. She tugged at her sleeve, trying to ignore the way her hair felt like it was being pulled out of her skull. She was dressed in black cargo trousers and a black vest today: the usual outfit for final exams. The examiners had given her a black leather jacket too, and Jack had explained yesterday that it was bullet-proof. Although, Clara reflected, there was a good he was winding her up; Jack had once managed to convince her that carnivorous frogs lived in the Thames, preying on unsuspecting birds and squirrels.

Clara frowned. "Mum?"

"Hmm?"

"What happens if I don't get Greece?"

Her voice was even. Deliberate. Then again, Clara thought, she'd been trained to speak without any inflection or accent in her voice; it was one of the things that made a great time traveller. Her mother stopped brushing.

"You're top of your year," Marie said. "Of course you'll get Greece."

"But what if I don't?"

Her mother set down the brush. "Then I know a wine bar that does a great merlot." She dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "You're my daughter, Clara. I'll love you no matter what. You don't need to prove anything to me."

A swell of emotion filled her. Relief? Love? It was difficult to tell sometimes, Clara thought; she'd become so accustomed to playing a role — a distressed Tudor peasant, an elegant French prostitute — that wearing her own face felt strange. She turned away from the mirror, reaching for her black trainers.

"Breakfast?" Clara asked.

Marie nodded. "Breakfast."

The kitchen was a sea of controlled chaos. Pancake batter dripped off the counter, pooling in a pair of black loafers. Dishes were piled in the sink. People grabbed napkins and cutlery. Everything smelled of overdone toast and maple syrup, and Clara claimed the last stool at the counter, almost putting her elbow in a pint of raspberries.

Her father raised a spatula. "Pancake?"

"Yes, please."

William Eaton piled three pancakes onto a plate. He flipped a knife in his hand, chopping a banana with expert precision. It would be impressive, Clara thought, if she hadn't seen it a million times before; as Director, her father was constantly showing off his weapons skills. She regularly found axes embedded in the sofa.

"What happened to your hair?" Nicholas asked.

Her younger brother was squinting at her, his head cocked to the side. Clara raised a hand to her hair — now freshly combed and braided — and pulled a face.

"What do you mean?"

Nicholas took a bite of cereal. "It looks so... clean, for once."

"Hey!"

Clara picked up a strawberry, lobbing it across the kitchen. Her brother ducked — years of training kicking in, no doubt — but the strawberry never made it; a manicured hand snatched it out of the air.

"Oh, good," Emma said. "Strawberries. My favourite."

She popped the berry into her mouth, shoving her water bottle under the sink. Water splashed over the counter. Clara watched, one eyebrow raised, as her younger sister began to shove various items into a handbag: lip gloss, wallet, keys, a handgun, a nail file, an exploding nail fail...

Marie unscrewed the syrup. "Where are you off to?"

Emma fumbled with the buckles. "I'm meeting Hazel for coffee before class. Well, I'm late to meet Hazel for coffee." She slung her bag over her shoulder, tugging on Clara's braid. "Good luck today, Clary. Kick their asses."

"Will do," Clara said, mouth full of pancake.

Emma dropped her braid. "When are the boys testing today?"

Her cheeks were slightly red. Then again, Clara thought, her sister was always red whenever Liam was brought up in conversation. Emma would deny it, but she'd been in love with Liam since they were all in nappies. Just last week, Liam had slept over at the house after they went out to a pub in Shoreditch and Emma had driven across town to buy a box of raspberry-cheesecake shredded wheats before they woke up.

"Liam likes them," Emma had explained, shrugging. "He ate the whole box at your birthday three years ago."

Clara stared. "How do you remember that?"

"I don't know," Emma said. "I just do."

After that, Clara had known for sure: Emma was in love with Liam. She would have been mildly irritated if not for the fact that Liam treated Emma like the younger sister he never had. Emma, on the other hand, cringed every time he ruffled her hair.

"They're testing in the morning," Clara said, cutting into the pancake. "Just before me."

Emma shuffled her feet. "Well. Wish them good luck for me."

Nicholas smirked. "Especially Liam, right?"

Emma scowled. "Oh, shut-up, Nicholas."

"I'm confused." Their father frowned, his spatula held aloft like a sword. "What's this about Emma and Liam?"

"You don't know?" Nicholas shoved his chair back, looking delighted. "Emma—"

Emma picked up a fork and slammed the back of it into their brother's hand. Nicholas gave an unearthly howl, lunging at his sister with his hands outstretched. The pair collapsed to the floor, a whirlwind of fists and grunts. Marie took a sip of coffee, reaching over to squeeze William's hand.

"We've raised them right, haven't we, darling?"

William kissed his wife on the cheek.

Emma hopped up, giving Nicholas one last jab to the ribs with her foot. "Oh, I've left a note for you, Clara. It's in the usual place."

Marie leaned forward. "Which is?"

"Top secret," Emma sing-songed, kicking off Nicholas, who was now snapping at her ankle like a feral animal. "We'll never tell."

Clara grinned. She and Emma had been writing notes to each other since they were kids, and no matter how hard their parents tried, they had never quite managed to figure out where they hid their letters. Clara had once caught her father pulling apart the couch cushions to check for any tears in the fabric. Director Eaton might run a top-secret organization, but even he had his limitations.

"Right." Clara rose. "I should get a move on, too." She wiped at her face, placing her plate in the dishwasher. "There are places to be. People to kill."

Her mother raised her coffee mug. "That's my girl."

The next fifteen minutes were a frenzy of tasks. Polishing swords. Stretching limbs. Scanning notes. Clara raced through the long corridor, glancing into her father's office as she went. It was plain, as far as offices went — oak bookshelves, sturdy furniture, and an empty grate — but there was a stack of papers on the desk today. Clara frowned. One of the papers had the Greek seal on it, which was strange; all time travellers were British. But perhaps one of them was on a mission abroad somewhere. Sometimes it happened.

She paused outside a door, glancing both ways. No sign of movement.

Clara slipped into the living room. She pushed several antique chairs aside, hopping over an overstuffed footstool. Eaton House hadn't changed much in the past few centuries; a ribbon of French crown molding ran around the ceiling, and the cushions wouldn't have looked out of place in an eighteenth-century museum. The only part of the room that had been altered was the fireplace; a square of the bricks had been replaced by plaster, and Clara had always thought it looked like there was a bulbous white mushroom growing on it.

She knelt in front of the brick fireplace. Using the metal poker, Clara pried one of the bricks in the chimney aside, feeling inside until her fingers found a scrap of paper and a long, solid tube. Toothpaste? A hand grenade? She pulled out Emma's letter first, unfurling it.

Clara,

Sorry that I used all the antiseptic yesterday. Please don't hate me.

Good luck today — I know you'll smash it.

E. xx

Clara smiled, pocketing the note.

She pulled out the tube of antiseptic next, lifting her bandage to apply some to the skin. A burning feeling began, but it was a welcome sensation; it calmed her. Steadied her. Fighting and fixing, hitting and healing; it was a rhythm that lived in her bones.

One day. Five tests. She could do it.

She would do it.