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Tala patted Cassian’s cheek with one wet palm and then attempted to insert her fingers into his mouth. He let her. They tasted of banana and the faintly chemical sweetness of baby wipes.

“The Royal Commission has made a decision to refer matters to the relevant prosecuting authority,” Alison said. “The evidence gathered through the inquiry, including your testimony, and the testimony of other former members, has met the threshold for criminal referral.”

Cassian’s knee stopped bouncing.

“What this means in practice is that the Commission has found sufficient evidence of financial crimes connected to the Family of Light’s operations. Corrupt dealings between the leadership and Charles Townsend’s business interests. Members of the community used as unpaid or grossly underpaid labour across Townsend’s agricultural holdings, which the Commission is treating as a trafficking matter.”

Tala grabbed his nose. Cassian didn’t move.

“And there’s something I need you to hear from me, Cassian, before you hear it from anyone else,” Alison said. “The referral covers multiple categories of offence, including sexual offences, such as rape within the marriage. The Commission’s position is that you could not have given meaningful consent to sexual contact with Charles Townsend, given the coercive environment in which you were raised, the absence of any sex education or medical care, and the fact that the marriage itself was arranged without your informed agreement. The restraint and the physical violence are separate charges: false imprisonment, and intentionally causing injury.”

Tala mooshed his cheek flat and he didn’t feel it.

“There’s more,” Alison said. “Charles’s legal team has been in contact with me. The moment the Commission signalled a prosecution referral naming Charles as a party to trafficking, they moved.”

“Moved how?” Colin said.

“They want to settle the civil damages claim. The offer came through this morning.” Another pause, shorter, the kind a person left when they wanted you braced before the next sentence. “They’re offering you a settlement of twenty-five million Australian dollars.”

Tala yanked Cassian’s ear.

He didn’t hear himself make a sound, but Colin’s hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and warm, so he must have made one. He didn’t really know what twenty-five million Australian dollars could buy, beyond the fact that it was more Mini Coopers than he could drive in a lifetime and more picture frames than Morty Fenwick had ever sold in his.

Alison explained the timeline, that the Director of Public Prosecutions would review the referral, build their own case, and interview witnesses. Cassian might be called to testify in person, not just the recorded submission he’d already given, but in a courtroom, with a judge, and Charles sitting across from him. He’d done it once already, against Uriel. Uriel had got two years, and Cassian had only cried once.

As she talked, he opened the calculator on his mobile and divided twenty-five million by three pounds fifty.

Seven million, one hundred and forty-two thousand, eight hundred and fifty-seven.

That was how many pastéis de nata he could buy at Proving Ground’s counter price, if he ignored the fact that the settlement was in dollars and the pastries were in pounds, which he did. He ran the calculation again with Chelsea buns at four pounds twenty and got five million, nine hundred and fifty-two thousand, three hundred and eighty. Fewer, but still a number so large it lost all relationship to pastry and became pure abstraction.

“Cassian?” Alison’s voice cut through the arithmetic. “I want you to take some time with this. You don’t need to accept the settlement today, and frankly, I’d advise you not to. If we go to court, I will win. The evidence is overwhelming, the Commission’s findings do the heavy lifting, and I’ve not lost a case involving institutional abuse in eleven years. We can get you more.”

Colin’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

“I don’t need more,” Cassian said. “I could buy seven million pastéis de nata, Alison. Seven million. That’s enough pastéis de nata to eat three hundred a day for the rest of my life and still have enough left over to build a really big house out of them.”

The line went quiet. Alison Ward had clearly not previously been asked to weigh a settlement offer against its pastry equivalent.

“I’ll take the twenty-five million,” Cassian said. “Please.”

“Noted. I’ll begin the settlement process. But Cassian, the criminal referral proceeds regardless. Charles’s money doesn’t buy him out of prosecution. That’s not on the table.”

“Good,” Colin said, from behind Cassian’s chair.

Cassian set his mobile on the table. Tala had fallen asleep against him, a fist still clenched in his hoodie, her breath slow and damp on his collarbone.

He was twenty-three years old, with twenty-five million dollars, a nullity decree, and nine empty picture frames on his bedroom wall. Tala’s drool soaked through his hoodie. The calculator app was still open on a number that meant nothing, because the only pastéis de nata worth eating came from a bakery on Portobello Road that he couldn’t even walk into any more.

Colin lifted Tala off him without waking her, settling her on his shoulder.

Cassian found the space pen in his hoodie pocket and opened his notebook to the next clean page.

Under THINGS I KNOW, he wrote a new sentence:

I am worth twenty-five million Australian dollars.

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