“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?”

“At least they have their loved ones to honour.” Her chin flies up and her eyes are bright with anger. “At least … at least people will eventually get their family’s books back once this has passed. Your father is gone for ever. I will never hold him again.”

“Oh, Mum.” I pull her into my arms and rub her back. I can’t stop worrying about what Seb said.

Mayor Longsight’s reticence to respond to the latest attack really troubles me. Not that I want more conflict – retaliation can only mean innocent people being hurt. What bothers me is how out of character it seems. Since he was sworn in as mayor he has been claiming to be a “back to the old ways” kind of leader; it all made so much sense: all our problems were because we were neglecting our roots, our religion and ritual. We had become lax and let our standards as the marked slip. Longsight promised us that purity would lead to stability, wealth and happiness.

A crackdown on soft attitudes towards the blanks was part of that. I thought war was on the horizon. His weak words today feel like when a teacher would tell me to ignore a bully – as though that might stop them trying to trip me up whenever I walked past. It’s one thing ignoring things that don’t exist, but to act as though the shocking attack on the hall of judgement was nothing … well, it’s dangerously unaware. The only thing that has changed is Longsight and this new teaching he’s supposed to have received. It’s as though all he cares about is proving his greatness, and yet… I can’t imagine his glib response has increased his popularity.

I pull back from Mum and look at her weary face.

“When’s the last time you left the house?”

She looks at me stonily. “The last time I went out, I saw the mayor killed. I had my purple shawl and I hoped no one would see me.”

“I saw you,” I say. I remember the purple scarf, but not her mark – she must have hidden it well. “You can’t give in – you deserve to live. You’re not in the jail so why are you imprisoning yourself?”

“I’m not brave like you, love,” she says quietly. “Why would I go out there, when I know everyone hates me?”

“Seb likes you.”

Mum manages a small smile.