Ellie looked back at the closed door, lifting an eyebrow suspiciously, but she didn’t say anything, instead letting out a tired but satisfied sigh as she stretched her neck out.

‘You look pleased,’ Lottie announced, unable to stop herself smiling at the way Ellie’s flushed skin made her look like a valiant prince returned from winning battle.

‘Yeah, I beat Anastacia.’ Ellie threw her fencing gear on to her bed, and began fiddling with her suit.

‘Let me help you with that.’

As she’d done many times before, Lottie reached for the zip at the back of Ellie’s neck, coming close enough to smell the cocoa scent of her shampoo, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath against Ellie’s porcelain skin. Carefully she pulled down the fabric, which fell away to reveal the hard white breastplate beneath. Her hands reached for the straps, muscle memory taking over, pulling on each tie with delicate calm attention.

It was just as the breastplate fell away that she saw it, a flash of dark markings, angry as a scar, the skin puffed up and sore around a deceptively elegant script. She didn’t have enough of a view to see it in full, but it looked to be the Maravish word, bol’shbrota – which Lottie knew meant ‘painful self-sacrifice’.

There was no time for her brain to be sure she’d seen it correctly, when abruptly, like an animal caught in a snare, Ellie grabbed her wrist with so much force it made Lottie jump. ‘I can do it myself.’

She pushed Lottie to the side, hard enough that Lottie caught her leg on the bedside table, and her water glass fell, smashing as she landed on her duvet.

‘Ellie, what was that?’ she asked. ‘And … and … you pushed me!’

‘It’s nothing,’ Ellie replied. ‘Lottie, I didn’t mean to, I just …’ She swore in Maravish. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Ellie, calm down, it’s OK.’ Lottie scrambled up to start clearing away the glass. ‘I’m fine.’

‘No, no, Lottie. I’ll clean it up. You stay right there.’

Her head still spinning, Lottie sat back down to watch Ellie pick up the broken glass, and from the way her dark eyes glittered it looked like she was fighting back tears. She sat there for a while, replaying the event over and over and the sore-looking mark on Ellie’s skin, not believing what she’d seen or understanding what it meant.

‘Lottie, what’s this?’ Ellie called over from the bin where she’d put the glass.

Lottie turned, blinking away the last of her shock, when she saw what was in Ellie’s hand.

‘It’s nothing,’ Lottie said, staring at the Havana postcard.

‘It’s not nothing …’ Ellie’s voice caught. ‘It’s from your dad.’