I ran out into the square and looked up at the mayor’s highest window. There it was – that movement again.

Una.

I had to get the photograph back. Fix the bits together. If the mayor wasn’t going to listen, I’d have to prove to someone else that Una’s not an eldest.

I needed the photograph.

I scooted round the side of the mayor’s house, keeping low. I crawled round the back, knelt on the damp ground, peered over a window ledge. The room was empty – just a desk and some shelves.

The window was ajar. I slid my fingers through, stretched for the inside handle. It was just out of reach. I wiggled my hand. It wouldn’t go in. I shoved it harder, scraped off some skin.

My fingertips touched the handle. I pushed.

Click.

I checked no one was watching, then climbed inside.

The mayor’s house was the exact opposite of Mr Wetheral’s. Everything was tidy, dusted, gleaming. Penny Parker, the Parker brothers’ mum, went in every day, loaded up with dusters and brushes. She was good at her job, for certain.

There – under the desk – a bin. The mayor would’ve put the pieces of photo in a bin, wouldn’t she?

I pulled it out. Completely empty. Course it was. She wouldn’t have come in here specially to throw something away. It’d be in a different bin most likely, somewhere else in the house.

I listened at the door. Footsteps. I flattened myself against the wall. Stupid really, I’d be squashed if anyone came in.

The footsteps went past.

I breathed out.

What were those – on that shelf? I took a step closer. Tiny golden models. Butterflies. Shiny and polished. A whole row, each one a different variety. I picked up the one on the left. It was heavier than it looked. A peacock, I think. Eyes on the tips of its wings. I could only identify it from the markings because there weren’t any colours – every butterfly was completely gold. I looked along the row. A gatekeeper, a tortoiseshell, a brown argus, a speckled wood. And right at the end – a red admiral. Those diagonal stripes and wide pointed wings.

I put the peacock back.

My gaze wandered across the shelves. Hold on. Was that Mr Opal’s knife? On the lowest shelf? It was. I took it, untied the laces, opened the flap, ran my fingers over the carved handle.

I didn’t know about the golden butterflies, but this knife wasn’t the mayor’s to keep. I tied it up and stuck it into the front of my trousers. Pulled my shirt down over the top. I’d be returning that to Mr Opal, same time as I returned Una.

If the knife was here, maybe the photograph was too. Maybe she hadn’t thrown it away.

I opened the top drawer of the desk.