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of Haverstock Hall. She’d asked him several times what he was really doing there. Alex had shrugged and said nothing, which had only made her dislike him all the more.
    And then, on the third day, she introduced him to some of her friends.
    ‚I’m going shooting,‛ she told him. ‚I don’t suppose you want to come?‛
    Alex shrugged. He had memorized most of the details in the files and figured he could easily pass as a member of the family. Now he was counting the hours until the woman from the academy arrived to take him away.
    ‚Have you ever been shooting?‛ Fiona asked.
    ‚No,‛ Alex said.
    ‚I go hunting and shooting,‛ Fiona said. ‚But of course, you’re a city boy. You wouldn’t understand.‛
    ‚What’s so great about killing animals?‛ Alex asked.
    ‚It’s part of the country way of life. It’s tradition.‛ Fiona looked at him as if he were stupid.
    It was how she always looked at him. ‚Anyway, the animals enjoy it.‛
    The shooting party turned out to be young and—apart from Fiona—entirely male. Five of them were waiting on the edge of a forest that was part of the Haverstock estate. Rufus, the leader, was sixteen and well built with dark, curling hair. He seemed to be Fiona’s boyfriend.
    The others—Henry, Max, Bartholomew, and Fred—were about the same age. Alex looked at them with a heavy heart. They had uniform Barbour jackets, tweed trousers, flat caps, and Huntsman leather boots. They spoke with uniform upper-class accents. Each of them carried a shotgun, with the barrel broken over his arm. Two of them were smoking. They gazed at Alex with barely concealed contempt. Fiona must have already told them about him. The city boy.
    Quickly, she made the introductions. Rufus stepped forward.
    ‚Nice to have you with us,‛ he drawled. He ran his eyes over Alex, not bothering to hide his contempt. ‚Up for a bit of shooting, are you?‛
    ‚I don’t have a gun,‛ Alex said.
    ‚Well, I’m afraid I’m not going to lend you mine.‛ Rufus snapped the barrel back into place and held it up for Alex to see. It was a beautiful gun, with twenty-five inches of gleaming steel stretching out of a dark walnut stock decorated with ornately carved, solid silver sideplates.
    ‚It’s an over-and-under shotgun with detachable trigger lock, handmade by Abbiatico and Salvinelli,‛ he said. ‚It cost me thirty grand—or my mother, anyway. It was a birthday present.‛
    ‚It couldn’t have been easy to wrap,‛ Alex said. ‚Where did she put the ribbon?‛
    Rufus’s smile faded. ‚You wouldn’t know anything about guns,‛ he said. He nodded at one of the other teenagers, who handed Alex a much more ordinary weapon. It was old and a little rusty. ‚You can use this one,‛ he said. ‚And if you’re very good and don’t get in the way, maybe we’ll let you have a bullet.‛
    They all laughed at that. Then the two smokers put out their cigarettes and everyone set off into the woods.
    Thirty minutes later, Alex knew he had made a mistake in coming. The boys blasted away left and right, aiming at anything that moved. A rabbit spun in a glistening red ball. A wood pigeon tumbled out of the branches and flapped around on the leaves below. Whatever the quality of their weapons, the teenagers weren’t good shots. The animals they managed to hit were only wounded, and Alex felt a growing sickness, following this trail of blood.
    They reached a clearing and paused to reload. Alex turned to Fiona. ‚I’m going back to the house,‛ he said.
    ‚Why? Can’t stand the sight of a little blood?‛
    Alex glanced at a hare about fifty feet away. It was lying on its side with its back legs kicking helplessly. ‚I’m surprised they let you carry guns,‛ he said. ‚I thought you had to be seventeen.‛
    Rufus overheard him. He stepped forward, an ugly look in his eyes. ‚We don’t bother with rules in the countryside,‛ he muttered.
    ‚Maybe Alex wants to call a policeman!‛ Fiona