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vault cannot be left unattended,’ said Renard. ‘A direct descendant of the island’s First Animare, Albion, must be present on Auchinmurn at all times to fulfil this duty. In past years, Jeannie and I have had that responsibility. With Jeannie gone, I bear the responsibility alone. The islands’ connection to our kind, and our connection to the islands, are supernatural, intensely powerful and never to be neglected.’
    Em tried making sense of this information. ‘You and Jeannie are both descendants of Albion?’
    â€˜We are. It has never seemed like a burden, until recently. But as long as Jeannie is gone, then I must be here.’
    â€˜Dumb rule,’ Em scoffed. ‘Who decided that was the way it had to be? What would happen if you left?’
    â€˜I would die,’ Renard said simply. ‘The islands would die too, along with whatever else they are protecting.’
    Sandie took Em’s hand. ‘You know that means that you and Matt are descendants of Albion too, Emmie.’
    Em’s eyes widened. Her mum hadn’t called her that in ages.
    â€˜So Matt and I can never leave the islands? We’re trapped here for our whole lives?’
    â€˜Not as long as Jeannie and I are alive,’ said Renard.
    Em needed to move around, to think this through. She got up from the table and walked over to the model of the Abbey in the Middle Ages, which sat on a table in the corner of the kitchen. Matt and Zach had been working on it since they’d come to the island, and it was perfect in every detail. Renard had always told them that it was a good means of focusing their growing minds and controlling their imaginations.
    Em picked up one of the tiny monks that Matt had taken such care in painting and turned it over in her hand. It had been rendered in fine detail, down to the tiny symbol of the monastic Order of Era Mina on the back of the monk’s robe.
    A geometric shape like a swirling helix.
    A crowd of thoughts pounded into Em, all at once. The helix. The mysterious figure that had haunted her in the night. He was connected to the Abbey.
    She held the proof in her hand.
    And with it, she knew the identity of the mysterious figure of haunting her. He was Albion.

TWENTY-ONE
    Auchinmurn Isle
The Middle Ages
    The sun dipped behind the horizon. The wind howled across the bay. Matt’s clothes were damp against his skin and his body ached from exhaustion. Worse, his stomach was rumbling furiously. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He dug his fingers into the corner of his coat pockets in the hope of finding something, but there wasn’t even a fuzzy Polo mint.
    They were heading silently north-west towards the more rugged, uninhabited part of Auchinmurn. Solon was in the lead, his tunic singed and torn, with Carik following, clutching her wounded hand close to her chest. Matt brought up the rear.
    Matt was astonished at how much Auchinmurn had changed over the centuries. He was adapting, slowly, to the overwhelming stink that permeated everything – a heady mix of burning peat, cooking pig fat, human waste and animal manure, all punctuated with the sour smells of sweat. But unlike in the twenty-first century, the island’s forest reached all the way to the shoreline, giving them cover as they climbed to the caves high up in the hillside.
    Solon stopped under a cluster of pine trees. ‘Can you climb this, Matt?’
    Matt looked up at the dense, overgrown cliff face in front of them, and nodded.
    Solon began to clear the way by hacking through the heavy wet brush with his sword as they climbed slowly up the cliff. Mud and water were still flowing through the bracken on this part of the island, so their ascent was a slippery one. Because of her swollen blistered hand, Carik fell backwards twice on to Matt. Her mistrust and wariness of him was still strong; he sensed it every time he set her back on her feet. He did his best to