LITMIR.BIZ

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lucky you’ve got me and Liam now to keep you grounded.’

      ‘Did you hear about the horrible thing Sarah’s done to me?’ she asks. She means Sarah Rathbone – queen of the CCs and her ex-best friend, of course.

      ‘No, what’s happened this time?’

      ‘She’s posted awful pics of me again, all over Instagram. She’s Photoshopped them, so I look like I’ve got really bad acne.’ She hands me her phone, and Liam and I study the pictures. Brianna looks quite different when she’s covered in pimples.

      After a moment, Liam nods approvingly. ‘That’s pretty skilled work. It must’ve taken ages to make the spots look authentic.’ Brianna doesn’t seem offended.

      ‘Oh – she had help. She’s got a cousin who’s really good at editing photos.’

      I hand back the phone. ‘So why is she doing it this time?’

      Brianna is trying to look nonchalant, but I can see it’s hurt her. ‘Just part of her ongoing campaign to humiliate me.’ She shrugs. ‘For deserting the posse.’

      ‘Nice,’ I say, pulling a face.

      ‘At least it confirms I made the right move, leaving the CCs,’ she says.

      ‘I heard they were holding auditions for your replacement,’ says Liam. ‘Wasn’t there some girl who bleached her hair because she was so desperate to get in?’

      ‘Yeah, Cherry-Belle McLaughlin – you know, the footballer’s daughter.’

      ‘The one with all that long black hair?’

      Brianna pulls a face. ‘Not any more. Now it’s bright orange and she’s having treatment to try and stop it breaking from the bleach damage.’

      ‘Ouch!’ I say, and Liam nods in agreement. There’s a word, Schadenfreude, which basically means taking pleasure in other people’s pain or misery. As the year’s ‘misfits’, ‘geeks’ or whatever you want to call us (I prefer ‘mavericks’), we’ve been on the receiving end of far too much Schadenfreude to relish other people’s misfortune.

      ‘So,’ says Liam, pointedly changing the subject, ‘how did you get on at the museum?’

      ‘OK.’ I pat my pockets. ‘I’ve got a swab sample I’m hoping Brianna will analyse for me.’ I produce the vial containing the cotton bud.

      ‘Where did you take it?’

      After I fill them in about what happened at the British Museum, Liam makes a low whistling sound of admiration. I feel myself blush.

      ‘So you really did manage to get in then?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘That’s our girl,’ says Brianna. She yawns and stretches. ‘Not sure how much longer I can stay awake, by the way,’ she says apologetically. She checks her watch and makes a note in an open exercise book. ‘Thirty-one and a half hours,’ she murmurs.

      ‘Did you use the Gatekeepers’ key to get in?’ Liam asks me. I frown a warning at him: we’re not supposed to talk about the Guild in front of Brianna. ‘You know you’re going to get murdered if the professor finds out.’

      But Brianna doesn’t seem to be listening. She’s walked over to a light switch near the bookcases on the back wall of the study. She flicks the switch casing open and presses a keypad. A section of the bookcase swings back. I never tire of seeing this: it’s such a classic secret-room device. If I ever envy Brianna, it’s not for her huge house, nor for the library (and I do mean an actual library, in its own room, with a high-up reading area like a balcony) – but for her secret room filled with all the paraphernalia a detective could ever dream of. She’s collected so many gadgets and chemical testing kits in her private lab over the years, as long as she’s been dreaming of becoming a forensic scientist. I feel pretty lucky to have got to know her – not just for her gadgets but for our shared love of all things investigative.

      But while we’ve been distracted by the bookcase, Brianna has slumped against the wall, her eyes closed. ‘Sorry, but I need to sleep now,’ she murmurs. ‘Can we do this later?’

      ‘Of course,’ I say. I drag one of the curve-back study chairs over to her side and Liam helps me manoeuvre her into it. He finds a blanket in another room and drapes it over her.

      Once we’re satisfied she’s comfortable, we walk inside the secret lab. Liam hasn’t been in here before and he stops on the threshold, taking in the extraordinary sight. It’s just how I have remembered it. Metal shelving fills the walls, and there are all sorts of tools and equipment on every shelf, including test tubes, pipettes, Petri dishes and bell jars. I walk past Liam, running my hand along a row of bottles containing various substances arranged in alphabetical order from acetic acid to zinc. I take mental pictures of all the supplies – just in case I ever need something.

      In the centre of the room there’s a stainless-steel table furnished with a Bunsen burner. I’m itching to set the flame alight, but I hold back. It’s not mine, and I should really wait for another day when I can ask Brianna whether I can come and try out some experiments.

      ‘This place is amazing!’ says Liam.

      ‘I know. I wish I had one.’

      ‘Hey – at least she’s willing to share it.’

      ‘True.’

      We’re silent for a moment, studying the room. Then Liam says quietly – not for the first time, ‘Brianna’s not at all what I expected.’

      ‘I know. She’s not all about her Instagram image at all.’

      Reluctantly, I take a final look around the room of sleuthing treasures. ‘OK – better close this up, I guess – I don’t feel like I should use the equipment to test the swab without her.’

      We come back out and close the bookcase, and I place the vial on the mantelpiece, with a page torn from my notebook propped up behind it, bearing the words Please test me!

      ‘OK,’ says Liam, ‘shall I walk you to the Tube?’

      I laugh. ‘It’s broad daylight, in a built-up area – I’m pretty sure I don’t need an escort. But we can walk together if you like.’

      We head out of Brianna’s house, making sure the front door latches properly behind us. The street is quiet as we walk towards the Underground station, and the air has become even more muggy, as if Liam has draped a blanket over not just Brianna, but the whole of London too. When we get to the Tube, he gives me a quick wave.

      ‘See you tomorrow,’ he says.

      My heart sinks. School! How will I ever do the Trial when I’m stuck in a classroom all day?

      I watch him walk off to his bus stop. I know his walk so well, I could pick him out in any crowd: swift and eager, as if there’s always something good round the next corner.

      I don’t go home. I’m due at my martial arts lesson with Mr Zhang. I’m not sure why I haven’t told Liam about these lessons. After all, he knows pretty much everything about my life. If I’m honest with myself, it’s probably just that I want to be much more proficient before I share it with him. At the moment, I’m little more than a beginner. Vanity affects us all to some degree, I guess.

      This is a new pursuit for me, which was suggested by Professor D’Oliveira. Actually, ‘suggested’ is too gentle a verb. Her exact words were: ‘If you’re going to be running about London like a headstrong fool, you’ll need some decent skills.’ I’d bridled at that. I had plenty of skills, many of which she still knew nothing about.

      Still, she’d given me Mr Zhang’s card and said to tell him Dorothy had sent me.

      The martial arts gym (called a dojo) is beneath Mr Zhang’s restaurant – the Black Bamboo – in the Soho area of central London, which he

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