“I think mine’s on too tight,” Maggie fiddled with the bracelet on her wrist.

“Nah, you’re just getting used to it still,” Flynn said, checking the space between Maggie’s bracelet and her skin. “It’s fine.”

“I don’t get it, though. How is it supposed to measure our parabilities?” Jessa asked, stretching her legs out across the picnic blanket on the lawn.

“Something to do with electromagnetic readings,” Maggie said. “It’s similar to those smartwatch monitors that record heart rate and stuff.”

“So it’s just going to be constantly recording information about when we use our abilities?” Jessa frowned.

“I think so,” Maggie shrugged.

“I don’t see how it’s going to help,” Flynn said.

“I heard that the information it records won’t be readily available,” Maggie continued, “but can be accessed if necessary. The example they used on the news was if a parapsych is arrested for breaking into someone’s house, then they can check the electromagnetic data for that time and see if there’s an energy spike, and if there is, you’ll know that person used their abilities to commit that crime.”

“But that person’s abilities didn’t make them a criminal,” Jessa snapped. “And a parapsych could still commit a crime without using their abilities.”

“I know,” Maggie nodded. “The whole premise is flawed. And it’s a violation of human rights, so I’m sure the decision will get overturned soon.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Flynn raised his eyebrows.

“Why? It has to get overturned.”

“Maybe eventually, but I don’t see it happening anytime soon,” Flynn continued. “They seem to be going to a lot of effort to put all these things in place. I don’t see why they’d go to the trouble of interviewing every parapsych and making everyone wear these things if there wasn’t a long-term change in the process.”

The cheerful din of electronic pop on the radio faded out, and a series of digital pellet sounds pattered in.

“It’s 2 pm on Saturday the 8th of May. I’m Sandy Sanderson, and this is NewsBullet. The Home Office has once again defended its decision to roll out extreme security measures among the parapsych population. The Home Secretary said in a statement today that he is considering the recent developments an issue of national security, and is determined to find all those accountable and hold them to justice.

Caroline Hambledon, the mother of chosen teenager Lauren Hambledon, has passed away after weeks in a coma. 42-year-old Mrs Hambledon becomes the twenty-seventh victim who died after being brutally attacked by the chosen in their efforts to join the now deceased Silas Lynch—”

Jessa snapped off the radio.

“Sorry,” she said quietly. “I can’t listen to that.”

“Do you think they’ll find Cecily?” Maggie asked.

“Probably,” said Flynn. “If they’re really tracking down every parapsych, they’ll catch up with her eventually.”

Jessa sighed.

“I wonder if school will be open next term,” Flynn changed the subject, running his hand gently over the tops of the blades of grass.

“I have no idea. Hugo hasn’t said anything about it,” Jessa shrugged. “I heard that parapsych students might just have to go to regular schools until the curriculum is reworked.”

“I saw the same thing,” Maggie shook her head. “I don’t want to go to a comprehensive!”

“You might not have to go to a comp, there are still lateral grammar schools,” Flynn reasoned.

“I can’t believe we didn’t get to do final exams,” Maggie mourned.

“Why are you so sad? They just used our coursework for grades, and you still got As in everything,” Jessa mocked.

“Yeah, but still,” Maggie sulked.

“But nothing,” Jessa said back, playfully nudging Maggie with her foot. “Are you okay, Flynn? You’re really quiet.”

He sighed. “I’m all right, I just—I heard from Tonia today.”

“Really?” the girls said. “What did she say? Where is she? Is she okay?”

“Yeah. She left right after the funeral. She’s staying with her aunt and uncle in Wales.”

“Is she coming back?”

“I don’t know. If Winsbury re-opens, then maybe. But if not, apparently she might just stay and go to school in Cardiff.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jessa.

Flynn poked at the ice in his cup.

“Everything’s changing,” Jessa said quietly.

The three teenagers sipped quietly at their drinks as each of them fell into a private contemplation. The sounds of London floated into and out of the garden on a breeze. The occasional waft of petroleum or barbeque wandered over them. Jessa Baxter stared up from the lawn at a single magpie in a tree above her. It twittered and hopped from branch to branch and then flew away out of sight, leaving Jessa there, staring up through the trees and into the vast expanse of an overcast summer sky.