The room began to shift as if held between a giant’s fingers, turning ever so slightly to the right. Though the rheumy yellow ceiling lights were on, it grew dark. Above their heads a fissure appeared in the ceiling and through it seeped thick colour, vibrant mauve, tumbling onto itself like the crest of a wave. The colour collapsed, became deep desert red, collapsed once more and became royal blue. When Layla finished the song the colours roiled away and the room lightened. Her mother cried silent tears. The doctor, once again, bared teeth. Her father regarded her, face solid.

‘Remarkable,’ Heminol said, making scratchy notes. ‘She must come in for observation.’

‘What kind?’ her father asked.

‘A simple physical, cranial scans …’ Heminol murmured, still writing. ‘You are aware that this condition is classified?’

‘Cosmogramma,’ her mother said, Layla detecting pride.

‘Clinically known as Ellison’s Syndrome, but yes,’ Heminol said. ‘You’ve done your research.’

‘Some,’ her father breathed, one clearly defined note, fingers stroking and feeling for knots in his beard he wouldn’t find because he brushed it at least three times daily, possibly more. ‘We’re willing to learn.’

‘Well,’ Heminol said, sitting straighter, unfolding long legs. ‘We don’t know much, just that some people – adversely or otherwise – seem affected by changes in gravity, atmospheric pressure, oxygen make-up, we don’t know which, or even whether they’re all contributory factors. Their genetic configuration, or mutated brain structure, enables them to affect subtle changes on our – the viewers’ and their own, that is – ability to perceive light refraction on a universal scale. While these people – mostly children, though as you know there are adult cases – by no means make up the majority, the percentage of the affected population is high enough to warrant sufficient concern for further study.’

Her mother’s eyes danced, flitting left to right.

‘That’s what we thought,’ she said.

Her father almost smiled. ‘Where will these studies be undertaken?’

‘The children’s ward of St Monmouth’s, no more than a day’s observation.’

‘We’ll have to take time off,’ her mother realised.

‘Oh no, we’ll come to your block and pick Layla up, bring her back when we’re done. Absolutely no need.’

‘Bring her back?’

‘Absolutely your choice. No obligation.’

Silence. Layla examined tessellations in the wood beneath her feet, tracing repetition. Dark, thick, straight lines like a word underlined many times over. The naadassa tree, like all trees on Kepler, had squares inside the trunk, not rings. Not that she’d ever seen a tree with rings.

‘We should know what’s wrong,’ her father said.

‘Yes, it’s such a worry.’

‘I totally understand,’ soothed Heminol. ‘And we’d be honoured to help. If you could just fill in these forms. Sign here … And here.’