There doesn’t need to be a man over by that gate. It could be a boy, sprinting across the lawn. A flick of the wrist, the look of surprise and a blade pushed into the heart.

Of course, Black Marks would rush down the lawn, except it wouldn’t matter – they would be too late. And sure, they would probably kill the boy, or beat him very seriously, or lock him up and throw away the key. But the thing would be done. To the Cerels, at least, the boy would be a hero. It would be …

A sudden sting of pain. “Oof,” I grunt.

Boss has grabbed me by the back of the neck and is dragging me towards the shed, then pushes me inside. He shuts the door behind us. “What did I tell you?” Boss growls in a low voice, as if the Director might hear him.

I rub my neck. “Go inside the shed.”

“Right,” he says, glowering at me. “You are not to be seen. Neither of us.”

“Sorry,” I mutter.

Boss snorts and starts to poke at the stove. “Away with the fairies, I reckon,” he says to the lumps of coal, already getting over it. “Or thinking about girls.” He twists his head to look back up at me. “Have you got a girl, then, Leho?”

My face goes hot, thinking of Emee. “That’s my business,” I tell him, sulking.

He isn’t offended. “Fair enough,” he says, striking a match against the side of the stove. We both watch as a small orange flame devours a twist of brown paper. “I had a girl once,” Boss says quietly, as if to himself.

“Where is she now?” I ask, curious.

Boss stands up, stretching his back. “Who knows … we lost touch when I came here.” He seems about to say more, but then bows his head to the black pot that already contains water and chicory. With a sharp intake of breath, a movement outside the window catches his eye. “Shit,” he says. It’s the Director, coming across the lawn towards the kitchen garden – and he’s nearly at the trellis.

Boss hurries to the door, smoothing down his hair and straightening his shirt. He sends a quick glance back at me, finger to his lips, then goes outside, pulling the door behind him.

“Good afternoon, sir!”

I creep to the door, barely breathing.

“Such a fine day,” says the Director. I’d imagined a deep, strident voice. Instead the Director’s voice is soft, introspective. “It is a shame to be inside.”

The Director is so close, I could reach a hand through the wood and touch his dark, gold-trimmed jacket. Or shove a blade in his back.

“Indeed, sir. And very good weather for your gherkins.”

There comes a chuckle. I stare at the door in surprise. “Good to hear it. Let us see these famous gherkins of yours–”