Jack was startled awake by a freezing cold sensation rushing over his body. Wrapped in a wet and cold thing. A cold so deep his very soul shivered. He jumped and fell to the floor with a damp thud. He was so afraid he squeezed his eyes shut and panted in panic.

  He was breathing hard, and his heart pounded so loud that he thought it would burst from his chest. “I… I can feel my heart. How is…” Still disorientated, he took a deep breath. “The poison. What’s. I’m dead? I must be dead.” Still draped in the cold, wet darkness, he felt his stomach for stab wounds. He found nothing but more confusion.

  He went to the worst-case scenario. The Gods of the Underworld had claimed his worthless soul, and he’d woken in Tartarus wrapped in a damp death shroud. “Is-is this the Underworld?” He prayed to the Gods that he wasn’t in Tartarus. Anywhere but Tartarus.

  Tartarus, the deepest pit of the Underworld. Reserved for the damned, the wicked, and the unforgiven. Surely his failed attempt to kill Viscount Greaves wasn’t enough to damn his soul? That had been justice. Hadn’t it?

  Fear crept up his spine as he shivered from the coldness, as a familiar female voice broke through his panic.

  “Were you having a bad dream, Jack?” She chuckled.

  Jack froze. No. It couldn’t be. His eyes opened wide, and with caution, he removed the wet shroud covering his face, half expecting to find himself before the bronze gates of Tartarus.

  He squinted against the light and saw a small, square room of timber walls and brass piping. A faint tick-tick-tick came from the cog-driven wall clock above a familiar bed; six in the morning. Spent blue aether-steam hissed from the vent in the corner. And in front of him stood a teenage girl with long, dark, curly hair, wearing a navy dress and the smug grin of someone pleased with themselves.

  Jack’s jaw fell open. Disorientated and confused, he stared at the smiling teenager. “Polly?”

  It was her! His younger sister was alive, young, and mischievous. Not the charred body he’d failed to bury in his memory.

  “Good morning, Jack,” his sister said.

  His eyes scanned the room. It was the same childhood bedroom he’d once called his own. To the right, the narrow wooden bed, now soaked through. To the left was his old desk, a mess of ink bottles, pens, and dusty tomes he’d once treasured. Manuals on runes and magical classification, magic spell scrolls to memorise for when young Jack would be capable of inscribing his own.

  Even the scent of parchment and spent aether-steam from the desk lamp lingered in the air. He recalled the wonderful smell of old scrolls and the call to sit at his desk with his head buried deep in research.

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  “I’m-I’m home,” he whispered. This was his home, not how he remembered it as the fire destroyed his life two decades earlier, but how it should be. This was before everything went wrong in his life; four years before the fire, when his family was still alive, and he was whole and happy. He could almost hear his mother’s voice from the kitchen calling him to breakfast.

  With reluctance, he pulled his eyes away from the old study area. Jack stared in shock at his sister, who looked much younger than he remembered. “By the Gods, how is this possible?”

  Polly beamed. “Well,” she said with confidence, patting down her long dress, “first, I filled a bucket with cold water and balanced it above your huge, fat head.” With a giggle, she pointed to the small shelf above the bed and the wooden bucket on the floor. “Then I tied it to your wrist and waited for you to move. Simple engineering, really.” Her eyes sparkled with delight.

  Jack followed the soaked rope back to his own arm, and recognition dawned. The prank on his sixteenth birthday, his annoying fourteen-year-old sister had done this. She tossed his books onto the floor, soaked his mattress, and almost froze him solid. He’d been furious at the time.

  Jack smiled at the pleasant memory. Am I still dying? Is this my life flashing before me? Before I’m judged by the Gods?

  As he contemplated the situation, he realised he hadn’t felt this good in decades. His skin was no longer tight from the burn scars. Other than the cold, his skin felt normal. The constant itch of scar tissue was gone.

  I can see. The fire that consumed his family had caused significant damage to his body, and the sight in his left eye was compromised. My left arm feels fine. The extensive burn damage to his left side caused pain and tightness in the scarred skin.

  While Jack was lost in his thoughts, Polly continued explaining the practical joke. “You took too long to move, so I tickled your stinky feet.” She started laughing again, causing her cheeks to go bright red. “Worked much better than I expected. You look like a drowned rat, Jack. Jack the rat as wet as a… cat?” She frowned. She was never very good at rhyming. “No, wait, that’s not quite…”

  Despite believing he was experiencing a last gasp at life, he jumped up and pulled his startled sister into a damp hug; the bucket attached to his wrist clattered on the wooden floor. “I’ve missed you so much,” his voice cracked with emotion. Tears streamed down his face as he recalled how she died, screaming in the fire.

  Polly squirmed and tried to push him away. “Get off, you’re all wet and stinky. By the Gods, when did you last wash?” She tried to lift her nose away from his chest, but Jack was half a foot taller and pulled her in closer like she’d vanish if he loosened the hold. “Stop moving,” she complained, “You’re making it worse. You’re wafting your nasty stink in my face.” She made fake vomiting noises. “Boys are disgusting.”

  In the original memory, Jack had been so annoyed at being wet that he’d chased her down. When she complained about the smell, he’d rubbed her face in his sweaty armpit. This time, he ignored her complaints and gave her a big kiss on the forehead before jumping up and down with her while laughing.

  With all her strength, Polly pushed him away.

  Jack laughed again, his laugh was wild and joyful. I’ve missed this so much. If only this were real and would never end.

  “What are you doing, you lunatic?” She wiped her forehead like a stray dog had taken a dump on it. “Urrr. What sort of brother kisses their sister on the head?”

  Jack felt alive. More alive than he’d felt in over twenty years.

  “What are you two up to at this early hour?”

  Jack froze as the familiar voice of his mother drew closer to his bedroom door.

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