I can’t stop laughing.

“Seb, you are a hero,” I tell him, shaking my head in wonder.

“I know.” He grins.

Chapter Thirty

While Seb cuts biscuit dough, he tells us what happened after the sacking of the hall of remembrance.

“It happened last night. It was awful. When we got to the hall it was destroyed. The blanks were gone before the guard knew what had happened.” He shakes his head. “The readers all got out safely. Then there was another meeting in the square first thing this morning. All the people were shouting. The mayor said that he would take care of us – and there’s going to be another marking soon.”

I frown. Something is missing here, I think.

“So, what are they going to do to retaliate?” I ask. “What’s Mayor Longsight going to do to punish the blanks?”

Rolling out the offcuts of dough and scattering flour on the surface with a practised flourish, Seb shrugs. “That’s what the people in the crowd were shouting. They shouted so loud, I didn’t like it.” Mum rubs his shoulder. “They calmed down a bit when Jack Minnow spoke instead. The people clapped him.”

I wait while Seb carefully puts the tray of biscuits in the oven.

“Seb, what else did Minnow say?” I ask.

“He made an announcement. A big one. Some more books got stolen and so he says everyone has to bring their skin books to the museum, so they can be guarded and kept safe.”

Seb is so matter-of-fact that it takes a while for his words to sink in.

“You mean, all the books that people have in their houses – all the skin books – are going to be kept in the museum?”

Seb nods. “Yep, so they’ll be safe.” He brushes his hands clean and takes off the apron he is wearing. “Those biscuits will be ready when the timer goes, but leave them to cool before you try and move them.” Seb gives us both giant hugs and leaves through the back door.

Mum is smiling fondly, but my heart is racing. Without the skin books in their homes people will have no access to their family – no means by which to carry the daily ritual so many perform: lighting of a candle, greeting by name. It may be protection for the books, but from the outside, locked doors will always seem like a prison.

“They’re taking people’s books.” My words tremble under my effort to remain calm. “Not the blanks – the government.”

“It sounds awful, I know,” Mum says, “but what else can they do? At least by keeping them at the museum they are all in one place. They can guard them.”

“The people are losing everything,” I try and explain. “The hall of remembrance is gone. The readers cannot work and so the dead cannot be mourned. And now the family skin books get taken away. How are people supposed to honour their loved ones now?”