The guard at my right has his children’s names marked on his bicep; I can see clearly that he is ashamed of his harsh words to his son.

A person at the front of the crowd has jewels inked at her collar bone. They tell me of the time she stole her sister’s precious bracelet.

We all have guilt.

I remember Obel telling me how he saw our marks and our lives – not as good or bad, black or white, not even grey, but layers of colour swirling into something uniquely beautiful. But all I see as I look around is kindling for the fire in the hall of judgement. Skins that breathe secret sin. Souls that do not deserve an eternity of remembrance.

Souls not worth saving.

We are guilty. We will be judged. We deserve what we get.

No, Leora, I tell myself, shaking off the stupor he has sent me into, despite myself. You are not a tick list of good and bad. Ink does not say it all. It doesn’t even say half of it.

I turn back to the stage. Longsight nods to the wings, and two guards lead a man to the stage – and it is a stage, I must remind myself. This is theatre. The man is slight and quivering with fear. His big, anxious eyes scan the crowd and I see his jaw work nervously. He is ushered forward to stand next to the mayor, who takes a step to the side so that the microphone is between them.

“What is your name?” Longsight asks, his eyes smiling.

“Philip. Ph-Philip Knowles.” He leans into the microphone, his wary eyes glancing around.

“You are an inmate of the jail here in Saintstone. So, tell me, Philip Knowles. Tell us all – what have you done?” He says it like a calm teacher to a rebellious child. What have you done? “Come, Philip. What brought you here? Tell us.”

The man’s eyes dart nervously. “I … I stole from the market stall, and when I was chased and caught, I hit Jonathan Delaney, the grocer. I broke his jaw. He’s not been able to work since.”

A disapproving murmur from the crowd. We don’t like violence in Saintstone.

“My daughter was ill, you see,” the man tries desperately to explain. “I have had to care for her – I couldn’t work. We don’t have anything. I never meant…” The man’s attempt at justification is lost in the jeers of the watching people. Saintstone is not sympathetic to those who can’t work, who can’t pay their way, who aren’t useful.

“What does our man Knowles deserve?” Mayor Longsight puts it to the people, as though this is a pantomime or a magic show.

Voices rise – some call for “Ink! Ink! Ink!”: a thick red line, the mark due for violent theft. But I also hear the word I dread: “Crow.” They want him not just marked, but forgotten. It sounds like a howl – like the bay of dogs.