“My aunt says you’re all going.” Her face is pale in the gloom. “And, you know, my aunt is always right.” A strangled laugh. “That’s irony, by the way.”

I clear my throat. “Really? I thought it was sarcasm.”

“Touché.” Emee makes that tinkling laugh she does when she’s trying to be somebody else, somebody her aunt might like better. Then she shrugs and flops down onto the grass, smoothing her dress over her knees. Her voice, coming out of the darkness, is quietly serious, confessional.

“My aunt told me about admirers, you know, when I was younger. All Travester girls are supposed to aspire to having at least one admirer.”

I sit beside her and put my arm around her shoulders, drawing her close, feeling her birdy bones beneath my arm.

It’s like she’s trying hard to be another kind of person; to be a girl who has lots of admirers, a pretty Travester girl who’ll marry well when she’s sixteen or so, and get taken off her aunt’s hands. But Emee’s not like that.

“And when your admirer goes away,” she says softly, like telling a fairytale, “you give them a romantic, meaningful kiss, according to my aunt, so that the admirer will remember you forever and ever.” The effect is spoiled by her unladylike snort of contempt.

“What was that you just gave me?” I can’t help asking.

Her eyes gleam in the dim light. “That was just a kiss,” she says.

So that’s where all that horseshit about admirers and romance comes from. I really thought she believed all that stuff. I feel a spark of pity for Emee. Especially after my telling her about the wild camps and after her visit to our building. Yet there’s a hard tone to her voice, and I realise I might have misjudged her all along.

“So where exactly am I going?”

That tinkling laugh of hers cuts through the dark, yet her eyes are watchful, and I wonder if there’s fear in that laugh as well.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know. It’s all everybody can talk about: the Director’s generosity, the astounding opportunity the Cerels are being offered …”

Astounding.

There’s something else in her tone that I haven’t heard before; there’s doubt, and maybe even a veiled criticism of the Director. I realise that my talk of the wild camps has changed her somehow. Or maybe it was seeing the Black Marks attack the puppeteer. It’d be hard to keep pretending after seeing something like that.

“Is there any hope for us?” I ask suddenly, our faces close.

Her gaze flickers as if she wants to tell me something, but can’t, and I think of her situation – an orphan, relying on the generosity of her Travester aunt and uncle. A girl who’s like an outsider in the household, and my heart nearly breaks for her.