‘I don’t think so.’ Agata supposed it might sound suspicious that she was prepared to reconcile with Pio but not her mother. But she wasn’t a good enough actor to pull off that encounter, and Cira would have much less motivation to play along. ‘If she’s stood by you, that’s admirable, but I think she and I reached the point a long time ago where we’ll be happier if we stay out of each other’s way.’

‘I understand.’

‘Can I bring you anything?’ she asked. ‘They let you have books, don’t they?’

‘I can always use more paper and dye,’ Pio said. ‘I’m writing a book of my own.’

‘What kind of book?’ Agata couldn’t help mocking him a little. ‘Surely there’s no need for a migrationist manifesto now?’

‘It’s a history of women and men,’ he replied.

‘You mean the discovery of shedding – that kind of thing?’

‘More or less. You can read it when it’s finished, if you like.’

Agata couldn’t imagine what he thought he could add to the version in the archives, but if he had a project to help him pass the time that could only be a good thing.

When the guard returned to fetch him, Pio leant across the desk and executed an awkward hug. As he drew back, Agata was still trying to memorise the sensation of his palm on her shoulder.

‘Will I see you again?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ she replied. The guard looked amused; apparently not in the next five stints.

Agata sat at the desk for a while, self-consciously pensive, her palms resting on her thighs as she passed copies of Pio’s tightly scrawled instructions back and forth between the two hidden patches of skin.

The food hall was close to the rim of the Peerless, and even at the second bell it was crowded. Agata entered and queued at the counter, trying to remain unfazed as she noticed people looking her way twice, probably recognising her from the archival image of the Surveyor’s return. At least their faces showed a flicker of surprise, proving that they wouldn’t make so much of the encounter that they let themselves know about it in advance.

She’d barely slept the night before, and then as she’d prepared to leave her apartment her console had beeped and offered up a message from her future self:

I still don’t agree.