Extract

Billi crashed down on to the rear car seats of her dad's battered grey Jaguar. Her eyelids began to droop the moment her cheek touched the familiar worn leather. The seat shivered as the engine chugged into life, as though the old car needed an awakening shrug before moving. Her father was still talking, but she couldn't make any sense out of it, what with Radio 4 crackling out of the speakers and the dull drone of the engine. It was all Templar stuff he was talking about anyway, and she'd had enough of that tonight. More than enough.

Welcome to the Knights Templar.

Like she'd even had a choice.

The vehicle began to rock rhythmically, and her eyes closed and Billi finally gave in to the exhaustion.

Welcome to the Knights Templar.

She pretends to be asleep. She hears the door creak open, and a sliver of light cuts across the room and her bed. Billi keeps her eyes closed and lets her breath slip in and out, ever so gently.

The floorboards groan, despite the visitor's attempt at silence. She doesn't need to see to know who it is. A hand brushes her hair away from her face, and she picks up the familiar scent of sweat, oil and old leather.

Dad.

'They're waiting, Art,' comes a loud whisper from beside the door. The voice is deep and soft: Percy, her godfather.

The hand straightens her duvet, and rests momentarily on her shoulder. Then her dad sighs and turns away. Moments later the door closes, darkness returns and the latch falls into place.

Billi waits unmoving for a minute, then slides out of bed. She's tall for her age, but light. The floorboards don't squeak even as she crosses them. Then she's beside the door, listening.

Muffled voices murmur from beyond. She can't make out any words, but there's the scrape of chair legs on bare wood and the sound of taps running: they're in the kitchen, downstairs.

Billi knows what she's doing is wrong, but she must know. Her dad is lying to her.

Why?

Why are there half-burnt bandages in the fireplace? Bloodied bandages.

Where does he go when he thinks she's asleep?

And why does she fear that he might never come back?

Billi opens the door and darts through the narrow gap. She scurries along the short corridor, then crouches at the top of the stairs.

And listens.

'If the boy is right, we've got no choice.'

It's her dad; he sounds tired. What boy? It can't be anyone from school – none of the other parents let their children play with her any more. Maybe it's that boy Father Balin brought last week. That skinny boy with the huge blue eyes and white hair. What was his name? She remembers.

Kay.

'A girl? In the Order? That's not foolishness, that's heresy!' The voice is hard and full of rage: Gwaine. Why is he always so angry? He and her father used to be friends.

'Art, at least give her a few more years of freedom – she's only ten,' says Percy.

They're talking about her! Billi catches her breath. She wants to hear everything. She puts a foot on the step and shifts her weight slowly on to it. She takes another silent step, then another and soon she's at the bottom, waiting beside the door.

The tap runs and water rattles inside a kettle.

'You know what the Jesuits say,' says another, in the slight Welsh-tinged accent of her babysitter, Father Balin. 'Give me a boy of seven and I'll give you the man.'

There's a snarl from Gwaine. 'We're not bloody Jesuits! We're –'

'Enough. I've made my decision,' says her dad, and everyone shuts up. It's like they're afraid of him. Why? He's not important. He's just a porter, here at the Middle Temple, like Percy and Gwaine. He fixes things. He tends the gardens and waters the plants in the halls. Doesn't he?