“And take that!” He keeps hitting her with the sword and people are laughing their heads off all around us. I don’t understand how they can find it funny. Emee, too, isn’t laughing. She’s frowning at the puppets. Then she looks at me and I can see understanding appear in her eyes. With tight lips, she turns swiftly on her heel and starts to march off. There’s no sign of Marta. I follow quickly after Emee.

“Wait!” People who are trying to watch the show jostle me out of the way and I lose a few seconds. I see she’s heading resolutely for one of the exits. “Emee!” I cry, but she doesn’t turn around.

Then there’s a sound that chills my heart. Boots running on cobbles: Black Marks. How did they get here so fast?

I slide under a table of vegetables and go into a huddle, hoping I’ll be invisible.

Three Black Marks wielding batons are wading into the crowd. I cringe as a heavy baton connects with a head and somebody goes down. People are scattering like terrified birds. A Black Mark slams his truncheon down on the makeshift stage, breaking the flimsy thing in two. The puppeteer is crouched behind screams – an unearthly sound. The Black Mark lays into him, the puppets still on his hands. He tries to shield his face from the blows and it looks like the two puppets are fighting in front of him.

In the far corner of the square, a figure catches my eye: it’s Marta watching the action as if it’s a puppet show she now approves of, and I get a sick feeling in my gut. But Emee, has she got away safely? Peering around the stall in the direction she went, I see she’s standing stock still, eyes wide, a look of disbelief on her face, and I know she’s never seen anything like this before.

Move! I silently plead.

With a shiver, as if she’s heard me, she turns and runs.

18

In the Director’s garden we harvest the pumpkins and Boss lifts open the cellar doors, showing me where to put them. Using the barrow, I pile up the heavy grey-skinned pumpkins and wheel them over to the cellar. Down the five concrete steps, carrying two or three pumpkins at a time, to the wooden shelf where I line them up like troll heads. It’s been a good crop and should take the household right through the winter.

Boss has kept one back for himself, which he plans to make into soup. He’s already sliced open the pumpkin, exposing the orange interior, and scooped out seeds to dry and store away for next season. He chops and wraps up a piece of pumpkin for me to take home.