8
‘Everyone, take a breastplate and helmet,’ Melvin barked as he dished out mismatched uniforms and weapons. ‘So soft and clumsy! How do you humans even make it to adulthood?’
Perched on a rooftop above it all, Stella had watched a minion arrive with sacks of equipment. John was at the front of the queue now, his eyes baggy with fatigue.
‘Four,’ he said, holding up as many fingers.
‘Two,’ Melvin corrected him. ‘The children won’t need armour where they’re going.’
‘Where they’re going? Where are we going?’ cut in a woman next to the Thorntons. ‘You’re not expecting us to fight anyone, are you? My husband’s a Savile Row tailor. He couldn’t fight a blancmange!’
A balding man, who Stella could only assume was the woman’s husband, shot her an indignant look.
‘Darling.’
‘Geoffrey! I won’
