He pushes me down so that I kneel before the crowd. His hand presses my head forward and I hear the rasp of scissors cutting away a handful of hair at the back of my head. It must be hurting his hand, I think. A block is brought for me to rest my head on as he trims more hair and then shaves the patch clean with a razor. I feel his warm hands on my scalp, the stroke of the blade, the tickle of hair being brushed away. His hands feel steady, even though I know the impossible act of will it must take for him to not cry out in pain as he wields tools in his right hand. The mark won’t be pretty; I know that much.

I wish I didn’t love that sound – the buzz of the machine, the way the note changes when the needle hits skin, the melody of it bouncing around my skull while Obel draws with ink, letting it ram a million times into my flesh. Every time he lifts the machine to dip into ink I feel relief and then he plunges once more. The pain is like bites – the beaky pecks of a crow.

When I stand up, dizzy and sweating, to face the crowd it seems like a held breath is released and the people get to their feet, stamping so hard the room quakes. They clap, they cheer, they jeer – making faces and grim gestures just for me. In this moment, everything they have hated, all the ways they have been mistreated and misled, are thrown at me in a crazed catharsis of screams and wails of celebration.

What happens now? I risk a glance towards Mayor Longsight and, although he is applauding too, I can tell – or sense – he is not finished with me. The fire burns on, and so does his vengeance.

I do the only thing that gives me power, and let my remaining hair fall about my shoulders, allowing my ink to be hidden. Mum used to tell me to keep my head down, but when I look her way, I know that neither of us believe that any more. We both stand tall, shoulders strong and feet planted. We are not meant to bow like snowdrops – heads hanging drooped; we are ancient trees – strong as oak.

And so, I barely notice as two people bring on a new contraption. The audience sees though, and the yells peter out. A hushed silence falls.