Emee sends me a swift look, as if she realises she’s said too much, been too open. “No, you’re not,” she says gently, then adds, “most of the time.” She gives an unladylike snort. “At any rate, now you’re here you may as well come with me to the postbox.”

I fall into step beside her. We reach the corner of Trabant Street and Emee turns smartly to the left. The buildings along this stretch are a little grimier, but just as impressive.

“Don’t you want me to walk ten paces behind you?” I say archly. “People will see you with a Cerel.”

Her expression is complicated. “I don’t care what people think right now.”

“What’s with the letter?”

She waves the envelope at me. It’s thick, the address written in a large, childlike hand. “My friend who lives in the country has invited me to stay with her.”

“What’s the attraction with the country?”

“They’ve got horses.” She gives a crooked grin. “I’m going by airship.”

I’m so jealous, but I’m not going to let her see that. “It’ll stink. The country’s full of shit and mud. You’ll get your nice shoes dirty.”

Nothing can spoil her mood. “As if you’d know what the country’s like!”

“I might have been to the countryside.”

Another snort. “That’s so not true.”

My turn to grin. “All right, not true. Though I’ve heard all about it.”

We’ve reached the tall black box on the street where Travesters post their letters, and Emee pushes hers through the chute. We head back. “What will you do, Leho?”

“How do you mean?” I ask, swiping hair back off my forehead.

She eyes me intently. “There are changes coming to the city, haven’t you heard?”

That makes me bristle. I hear everything on the streets, but I’m not about to tell her that. Instead, I pretend not to care. “Sure, I’ve heard … whatever. It’ll all be the same in the end. Ursa won’t ever change.”

“Really?” Emee gives me an odd look then, like she knows something I don’t, something important, and with her family’s connections to the Director, maybe she does. She sighs. “As long as you know.”

* * *

It’s a late summer’s afternoon and the whole city seems to be covered with a fug of soft haze, as if under a spell, and nowhere more so than in the Director’s garden. Bees blunder lazily, drunk on nectar, among the blue borage flowers. Swelling melons rest on beds of straw. The air is filled with the scent of the honeysuckle that grows along the pathway down to the river, and the heat is stifling.