I turn to Obel and frown. “Do you know more than you’re telling me?” He sighs and shakes his head.

“They tell me I am to mark the mayor, they tell me it will win me some comfort. I’m instructed what mark to make and I make it. There’s nothing more to tell.”

“Come, Obel, I know you’re locked up but don’t let it rot your brain,” Connor says, his tone kind beneath his chiding words. “You’re a blank who lived among us for years: deceived an entire town. If Longsight told the people that, the good citizens of Saintstone would be baying for your blood. And yet … Longsight lets you live and he keeps your secret. Why? Come on, inker, think about it.”

Obel gives him a faint smile. I look at Connor. His ink is beautiful beneath the dirt. His marks are reminiscent of harvest festivals; I can see that his parents were farmers. His skin celebrates the hard work of labouring finally celebrated with a glut of fruit and grain and vegetables. A tattoo of a corn dolly swirls into a memory of when Connor would come home from the flayers, kiss his wife and baby son – Oscar – and his heart would feel like it was fit to burst from all the love and joy and plenty they enjoyed. Ink that shows a wide sunset above a reaped field tells me of the emptiness when his wife died – of how it seemed like all their blessings had wasted away. I’ve never seen this bit of Oscar’s life and I wonder now at how hard it must have been to always be trying to fill the space left by his mother.

“All right, genius,” Obel says softly. “Tell us why you think I’m here.”

He smiles. “Glad you asked.” He crouches on his haunches, making himself more comfortable. “The mayor could use any inker – there are plenty of the government inkers who usually do the official marks that he could choose. But he’s got you, Obel. And that’s because he can use you. You have a secret. He can keep you close. Why? Because he’s planning something.”

Obel chews his lip. “We should speak to Karl,” he murmurs.

“Karl?” I ask, and Obel hushes me.

“Karl Novak. He’s one of us, isn’t he?” Connor grins, his voice barely audible. “He’s joined the crows.”

Before I can register my surprise a guard interrupts us. Our time is up and I’m asked to leave, a strong hand on my back pressing me away from Obel. I turn my head and he’s watching me leave. Connor Drew has given us both plenty to think about.

Fingers and fire. Together they make pictures on the wall – shadows that dance and play. Stories breed in the shade.

From the shadows rises a man and the fire spits out two words: saviour and spy.

The outline of the man splits in two and these identical figures enact a different story. One shows a man who has pity on his enemies; he goes to them and shares all that he has.