Obel is a different man when I go to him on the third day. He is himself again, somehow. The dignity of being clean. Guards have already brought the dyes and inks, brushes of all sizes, and he eats his breakfast quickly, keen to get started. I feel relief start to creep back in. I recognize this Obel.

Like I do when I’m inking with a machine, I begin with the lines. Some, I trace over the faded marks that still show on Obel’s skin, but in other places I rely on memory and Obel’s guidance.

“Keep the linework clean, Leora,” he tells me, watching carefully, ever my teacher. “Make sure the swallow is – no, a bit higher than that – so it moves with the muscle. Yes, good.” He’s desperate to do this himself, I can tell, but his wings are clipped. He has to rely on me.

Painting skin is nothing like inking. I have to consciously remind myself not to instinctively wipe with every pause of the brush, as I would with needles and ink. I have to learn a new language of skin and resistance and softness. There is no blood. There is no pain. And I miss it, that bite of pain inflicted. I miss knowing I am doing deep work, a mark which means more because with every gasp, every bitten lip and sigh, the person lives their ink – earns it. It’s the pain that makes it matter. The swelling as your body fights against the intrusion, the brightly coloured scabs, the sting of remembering your mark when you run your newly inked arm across the edge of a table or pull on your coat too roughly. What is the tickle of a brush and dye that will dry in an instant? You have not earned those stripes.

But Obel – he’s earned something. He deserves more than this.

Chapter Ten

Mel insists on braiding my hair before we go out. She pulls the strands tight. She says it’s to make me look presentable, but when I ask, “Presentable for what?” she just braids faster. Her hands shake. Our three days are up, and today I get to discover what Obel’s rehabilitation has all been about.

I have been provided with new clothes – nothing showy, not like Mel’s uniform of gilded metal and leather which looks so beautiful on her lush flesh and rounded body. I am clean and neat, and I get the impression that I am being dressed in such a way as to make sure I don’t stand out. That’s fine by me.

It is still early when I put the finishing touches to Obel’s skin and follow Mel and three guards as they lead the way through the warren of tunnels towards the government building. An official joins us and when I turn my head I almost gasp. It’s Karl – Karl Novak, my nemesis from the studio; Karl who laid his hands on me in a moment of rage. But also – Karl, who tried to warn me before Dad’s soul-weighing. Our eyes meet; he gives the merest shake of his head to warn me not to acknowledge him and I look back at the ground. He’s made his way up the ranks swiftly to be entrusted with criminals like us.