“Well, yeah, just until the boat lands and we get out the other side. We were supposed to be traveling with our big brother, but he’s still … A station wagon like yours, it would be easy to hide Morgan under a blanket, bedspread, whatever.”

“What if we got caught? Won’t they put us in jail as child-slavers?”

“We won’t get caught. Morgan’s very good at keeping still. Houdini. I’ve been watching the other cars go through. They don’t search them or ask questions or anything, you just show your tickets and passports and they wave you along. Because otherwise, what with nobody in my family knowing how to read or write, and us all being scattered, there’s no way we can get across to our parents. I mean, we can’t exactly swim, can we?”

“What are you going to do once you get to Newhaven? You know, it’s still quite a long way to London.”

“Aw, that doesn’t matter. Once we’re across, we’ll hitch. Or we’ll take a bus. We’ve got money. Florian gave us plenty of money. All we have to do is get across that”—she nods towards the sea—“and we’re fine.”

“Hmmmm,” the man considers. “Well, it’s a tempting idea, to be honest—staging our own little act of civil disobedience against border controls, but I’m not convinced. With our roll of luck, we could all end up in the clink.”

“We’ve got EU passports,” repeats Rat, desperately. “We’re French.”

“Let Jane and me talk it over between ourselves, all right?” He looks at her quizzically. “You’re not wanted by the law, are you?”

“No.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“We’re not going to get arrested for assisting fugitives, are we? Juvenile narco-terrorists?”

“No. It’s just some stupid rule that kids can’t cross borders by themselves, that’s all. I’m fine, I’m fifteen. Ten months later, and I’ll be able to take him myself. We haven’t done anything wrong, I promise.”

“Mind if I just take a look at your passports?”

He leafs through them. “Celia Bonnet, eh? My God, is it possible that anybody could be born as late as 1990 and already be sentient? You have different last names.”

“Yeah, Morgan’s got our dad’s name, I’ve got our mom’s.”

“Is Perpignan nice? Any cheap farms to be had?”

She smiles. “If you get us into England, I’m sure somebody we know could find you something. Us Gypsies have plots of land all over the place, even up in the mountains.”