I’d been here once before, years ago on a school trip—memories of cold stone, uncomfortable pews, and beating up a kid called Andrew Spragg in the shadows behind the pillars until he’d handed over the money he’d brought to buy a souvenir. I felt my cheeks redden, wondering—not for the first time or the last—whether I even deserved to be saved from this nightmare, whether I should have just stayed in Furnace, accepted my punishment for who I used to be.
