Pilgrim had regularly walked past the stuffed bear that stood at the entrance of the Hall of Natural History in the Library of All People, but this was the first time he had seen a live specimen. A monster escaped from tales told to thrill and frighten pups, creeping slowly across the snow, raising each foot high before planting it carefully, pausing often to cock its small head and look all around. Breathclouds plumed from its blunt snout. The crest of hair on its head and the thatch on the barrel of its chest were tinted pale green by aurora light.

‘That there’s an old one,’ Gentle said softly. He had recently been on an unsuccessful hunt for bears up in the mountains with the two cousins and their friends and a pack of eager curs only a few generations removed from the mountain lobos from which they had been bred. ‘Most likely it’s still out and about because it lacks the fat it needs to survive its winter sleep.’

The bear looked up, small eyes overshadowed by its heavy brow. Even though it was three floors beneath the window, Pilgrim held his breath.

‘Don’t worry,’ Gentle said. ‘They’re famously short-sighted.’

‘Then it heard or smelt us, because it knows we are here,’ Pilgrim whispered, thinking of the scaffolding that braced the tower, wondering if the creature could climb.

‘It suspects that something is watching it,’ Gentle whispered back, ‘but doesn’t know exactly what or where.’

The bear lowered its head and plodded on. Stopping again, dropping to all fours and remaining absolutely still for several seconds before plunging its arms deep, sending snow showering to either side as it dug and thrusting its face into the hole and rearing back, chewing something.

‘Field mouse most likely,’ Gentle said. ‘Or a vole. It’s hungry, like I said, and too old to bring down a deer.’

The bear wiped its mouth with the back of one of its forepaws, a delicate gesture peculiarly like a person’s, and reared back on its hind legs and ploughed on through the snow, disappearing around the edge of the tower.

Pilgrim felt a taut string relax in his chest. ‘We should warn Grace.’

‘Why I knew to keep watch for it – she spotted it two nights ago. There’s nothing much for it to eat here, so it’ll move on soon enough.’

Despite that reassurance, Pilgrim slept badly the rest of the night, imagining the bear padding amongst the towers in the shifting glow of the Skirts of the Mother. Imagining it standing three floors below, looking up at its windows. Thinking about the flimsiness of the tower’s outer door and the door of his room. Thinking of the darkness under the crowded trees of forests that spread for hundreds of leagues beyond this sliver of civilisation, and the remoteness of his exile.