“Oh,” says Dea. “Hey, hi! Cate, isn’t it?” She smiles, stretches out a gloved hand. Her face is tired, wind-blown. “I didn’t recognize you at first. Without the baby. Where is he today?”

“With my mother-in-law. In Harbledown.”

“That’s good.” Dea puts her head to one side. “You don’t look sure. Is that good?”

“Oh, no—it is. It’s just the first time that I’ve left him. It’s all a bit strange.”

“I know what you mean,” says Dea, nodding. “I have the day to myself on Tuesdays. I look forward to it all week, and I’m supposed to be working, but I just . . .” She pulls a face.

“What’s your work?”

“Church art. I’m writing a book. But it’s taking me forever.”

“What sort of church art?”

“Some of it right here.” Dea points to the roof and Cate looks up. At first she doesn’t know what she is looking at but then, “Here”—Dea takes her by the elbow—“see that Green Man? And the mermaid?”

It is hard to see at first, but as Cate looks closer the details emerge—not just Green Men, but coiled dragons, lizards, shepherds with pipes. “Oh,” she says. “Yes. You’d never know they were there.”

“Exactly! I like to think of them as little nodes of subversion. Pagan deities holding up the buttresses of the established church.” Dea looks back. “Did I actually just say that? Sorry.” She gives a rueful smile.

A cold wind is funneling around the cloisters. “It’s cold,” says Dea. “Shall we go back to my place? It’s just around the corner. We can have some tea.”

“Sure.”

They walk out of the cathedral, past the stall manned by the students, where Dea stops for a second to speak to the pink-haired girl. Cate hangs back, watching as the girl proudly shows Dea the list of signatures.

“She’s one of my students, or she was before I took maternity leave,” says Dea as she rejoins Cate. “We’re asking our Vice Chancellor to speak out about the tuition fees, but I don’t think she will. It’s interesting though—all these kids. They’re really taking a stand. I’m proud.”

Dea’s house is close, just off the high street—tucked in a terrace of similar small houses. The front door is painted a muted gray-green; beside it, a window box blooms with late crimson flowers. The narrow hall is a tangle of coats and scarves. Dea leads her through into a kitchen at the back, where the house opens up and becomes light-filled and welcoming. A tall black woman with a loose Afro stands at the stove.

“Hey, Zo.” Dea unwinds her scarf. “This is Cate. I met her at Playmaggedon. That terrible group I told you about. And I just bumped into her in the cathedral.”