Emee isn’t as confident now, staring at my mother’s face with an expression of pity and something else I don’t recognise. “This is Emee,” I tell Ma. “She brought us some turnips.”

“Hello, Mrs–” she starts.

“You may call me Freya, dear,” says Ma, smiling in Emee’s direction. Her face looks a bit shaky today; maybe she’s had a bad night.

It’s obvious that Emee is casting around for something to say, when her gaze falls on the shawl my mother has draped over her shoulders. “Did you make that yourself, the shawl?” she asks.

“This old thing? Yes, I did.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Ma makes them to sell,” I add proudly.

“Though this one’s for me,” says Ma. “Have a feel – it’s the softest yarn.”

Emee leans forwards and fingers the shawl. “You’re right, it’s wonderfully soft.”

“A friend from the country brought me the yarn many years ago, when people were still able to move around freely.”

“But we’ve always been able to travel freely,” Emee puzzles, obviously meaning Travesters.

My mother turns her face in my direction, also looking puzzled. “Emee means the airships,” I say quickly, adding for her benefit: “Even though Cerels can’t travel by them.”

“Oh,” says Emee, “that’s right.” She seems embarrassed. Doesn’t she know we’re not allowed to come and go as we please, like Travesters can?

“How clever,” she says, fingering the shawl again. “The pattern is so complicated. I could never make something like this!”

“It’s not that hard,” says Ma, pleased with the compliment. “I may not be able to see exactly what I’m doing, yet I can still knit a reasonable garment,” she says modestly. “I could even show you how to do it sometime.”

“Would you really?” Emee turns a little pink in her pleasure. “I’d really like that.”

“Didn’t your mother teach you to knit?” asks Ma, openly curious.

“My mother died when I was little.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, child.”

“It’s all right,” says Emee primly, “I’m used to it.”

And as easy as that, they start to chat away like old friends, my mother’s hands working the knitting needles as she talks to Emee. Still hovering nervously, I’m hoping nothing else difficult comes up, like the wild camps.

“Leho,” says Ma finally, turning her head in my direction, “you’re a dark horse, keeping your new friend a secret.”

To Emee, she asks, “Which family do you come from, dear? Your voice reminds me of one of the girls down Tor Street.”

“Oh, I’m not from around here,” says Emee.

My mother looks confused, obviously expecting Emee to live in the Cerel district. “Then where are you from?”

“I live with my aunt and uncle in Trabant Street.”

Ma turns her face to me. “The Travester district?” she says faintly.