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“God, it’s just like school,” I whisper.

Blue shrugs. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

I squeeze his hand. He and his mum had slipped thoroughly through the cracks with social services, so his education was very lacking. His mum had done her best to do her version of home-schooling him, but when her illness developed, he’d made do with learning things from the people he’d met in squats and the copious amounts of books he could shoplift from WH Smiths.

He’s consequently incredibly well read but has large gaps in his knowledge. He affects not to be bothered by his lack of formal schooling, but I know it embarrasses him deep down. I’m not sure why. It just makes me admire him more. Everything Blue is he owes to himself. Who could possibly feel anything less than admiration for a human who went through what he did and still came out kind, clever, and determined to at least try to be good?

“Let’s have a look at the museum first,” he says. “We can come back to this if we want to know more.”

A man turns and glares at him. “Be quiet,” he says crossly. Blue slowly raises one eyebrow, and the man turns hastily back round.

I tuck my smile away and follow him through a door and into the actual museum. I’m instantly fascinated. It’s a series of small, interconnected rooms that are crammed with glass cases of objects and displays. Framed pictures line the walls, sharing space with informational posters. It’s also surprisingly quiet, with no one around. Maybe they’re all back in the TV room.

“This is cool,” I say but Blue has abandoned me to hover over a glass case of swords and guns.

“Levi, come and look at this,” he calls, gesturing wildly in case I didn’t understand his command. I amble over and find him looking down at an unwieldy, long gun that looks like it’s come from a cartoon. “It’s a blunderbuss,” he says. “What sort of stupid name is that?”

“Ah, it comes from the Dutch word for thunder pipe,” a voice says.

When I turn, I find an old man standing behind us. He’s wearing a name badge and carrying a duster. Smiling at Blue, he says, “It was an early version of a rifle. Much favoured by highwaymen and stagecoach drivers.”

Blue cocks his head. “What about smugglers?”

“Yes, they used them. They were good at close range. They also used pistols and cutlasses when fighting off the revenue men.”

And then they’re off, Blue peppering the man with eager questions. I leave them talking and walk slowly through the museum. I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, but I have the strangest sense that I’m going to find it today. Maybe some of Blue’s sixth sense is rubbing off on me. I trace my hand over another glass case, this one focusing on the tea trade. If Blue sees me viewing a display about tea, he’s going to take the piss unmercifully. Luckily, I can still hear his voice rising and falling in eagerness as he chats to the old man.

I take a right and find myself in a corner dedicated to a rogue’s gallery of the men and women involved in the eighteenth century smuggling trade. My interest sharpens as I study the small pen-and-ink drawings. They’re a wide variety of faces, some sullen, others filled with the same roguish charm as Branok. I don’t see him anywhere and I feel a pang of disappointment.

Beyond the gallery is a mannequin of a woman in a bonnet and long dress. There’s no identifying tag, and I lose interest, moving quickly past her to view a wall posted with historical notes on the different Cornish villages and towns where famous smugglers plied their trade. I’m just reading one on Looe Island, where apparently a brother and sister team cleared the island of rats by eating them, when a breeze blows through the room, strong enough to make the mannequin’s skirts billow. It smells odd—a rich sort of perfume that seems familiar somehow.

I glance at the nearby window, but it’s closed tight and what looks like fifty layers of caked paint on the latch means it’s staying that way. The back of my neck tickles and I glance at the mannequin. Beneath the shadow of her bonnet, her cold stare seems fixed on me and makes me shiver. There’s a rustle, and the breeze stirs her skirts again. It’s eerie, making her look like she’s come to life.

I give a choked laugh. It makes sense I’d experience some residual anxiety from yesterday’s ordeal. I reach up to touch Branok’s amulet, making sure it’s still around my neck as I sneak another glance at her.

Her plastic face is still white and rigid, with bright red spots of colour painted on her cheeks, but those dead eyes are now alive and glittering with malice. I gasp, taking a step back, and she blinks, her lashes sweeping her cheeks. I freeze as her limbs suddenly move, a plasticky creaking noise piercing the quiet.

Her thin, pale mouth curves in a wicked smile. “Levi Black.” The voice sounds rusty. It’s probably never been used before. “Oh, we have heard of you.”

“Levi, where are you?” Blue calls.

“I’m here,” I shout shakily. My voice echoes strangely, and Blue doesn’t answer.

The mannequin’s face is once more set in a cold, rigid mask. I take a shaky breath. What the fuck was that? I raise my hand and check my forehead. My hand is sweaty and shaking wildly, but my forehead is cold. I can’t blame this on a fever.

Maybe I hit my head while I was possessed? A chill runs down my spine. Or maybe something lingers inside me—some ability, or something darker.

I scrub my fingers over my lips, my hand still trembling. I clasp the amulet again and that gentle warmth immediately fills my body. I take a breath, beginning to feel myself once again.

“Levi?” Blue calls. “Where are you? How big is this bloody museum anyway?”

I clear my throat. “Over here.”

Eager to see Blue, I quickly turn away from the corner. My elbow catches the frame of one of the portraits on the wall. “Fuck,” I mutter, just managing to grab the little picture before it falls to the floor. I breathe out shakily. That was close.

I look down and the world seem to stop. A face looks back at me, angular and with a mouth that has an unpleasant, sneering curve. Thin lips reveal far too many teeth and black hair is flecked with grey.

I know this man. I analyse people’s faces the way some people study cloud formations. It’s part of my job, and I’ve seen this face before. But how is that possible?