Broken ceramic slicing across my hand; blood in the washing-up water.

Gull’s skin bubbling in agony as she tried to mark it with dust and ash.

Karl’s strong hand pulling me to face him as we argued, his fingers digging in to my shoulder as I slipped and fell.

The smell of lavender as Mum bathed my tender skin.

The marks that grew alone, telling me my story before I understood what it would be.

I think of these things as I work so that I don’t think about Obel.

I tend to him as though he is a customer at the studio, a stranger. It is like when Dad was ill: losing him bit by bit, seeing him become watered down until all we had was diluted – a hint of him, a memory of a flavour.

But this is different; Obel is not dying. Over two long days I wipe decay from his skin and feed him with water and bread, sips of beer and slices of apple. And as the grime is rinsed away, I think I begin to see him emerge. His back straightens, his teeth bite the apple and the juice drips from his chin. Shoulders back, eyes clear, and with a sigh I hear the whisper of my name. I smile grimly. How’s this for a resurrection, Longsight?

The guards bring me balm for Obel’s sore skin, clippers for his nails, and clean clothes for him to wear.

On the second day, I ask him why he is still here. What purpose he is going to serve.

“I don’t know,” he mutters. “No idea.”

Connor Drew laughs then, a harsh sound in the inky dark. “Don’t play ignorant, Obel,” he calls out. “Why would Longsight keep an inker under lock and key? An inker who is utterly at his command, who can be made to do whatever the mayor demands?”

He comes forward and leans against the bars. Underneath the grime and stubble, I think I can see Oscar in his face. I look away. “What does Longsight want, then?” I ask them both, trying to keep my tone gentle, attempting to hide the fear and dread. “Why does he want you cleaned up and marked again? Obel – what’s going on?”

Obel only glares at Connor.

“It’s not over yet. You’re a fighter,” I murmur and rub balm into his right hand. The bones have set crooked, leaving his fingers splayed and weak – I ask him to move them, to grip my hand, and he turns his head away. His fingers shake as he attempts to make a fist – his fingertips don’t even reach his palm.

“We need to get this reset,” I tell him. It feels oddly maternal to be handling him in this way, and I think of his mother, Tanya, back in Featherstone, and how this would break her heart. She has lost both Obel and Gull.

I wonder again where Gull is. She must be alive – she must be. Longsight said she would be safe.