“He might be … they might want to make an example of him,” I say, trying to buy him time, if only in my own mind.

Nanna snorts in disgust and folds her arms across her ribs.

“I’m damned if I’m going to hide away any more,” my mother says quietly. “Too long I have held back, out of fear, and done nothing.” She turns her head in my direction. “We’re going outside.”

I’m gobsmacked. My mother has only been out on the street a couple of times since her blinding, more than five years ago. Nanna also stares, speechless. Ma is now standing, one hand on the table, cane in the other, waiting patiently.

A smack on the back of my head jerks me back to reality. I stagger to my feet, sidestepping Nanna, who looks ready to give me another cuff, and touch my mother’s elbow. I try to read her expression, unsure of what’s going on.

“Ma?” I ask her.

She gives a determined nod. “Yes,” she says, “I’m sure. We’re going to get Jorzy.”

21

The first person we meet outside is Marta Gayer. The Travester woman takes one glance at my mother and seems to reel back as if struck. She bows her head and hurries off in the other direction, her footsteps cracking along the pavement.

My mother, wearing a pair of dark goggles, turns her face to the cloudy sky. Luckily, it’s not too bright today. She holds my elbow, cane in her other hand. “Who was that?”

“Nanna’s Travester friend,” I tell her, hoping it won’t be like that all the way to the House of Law. It’s bad luck to publicly recognise somebody who has been damaged by the Black Marks. Better to turn your back, is my grim thought.

“What’s it look like out here?” Ma asks, a faint smile on her lips.

What can I say? The street seems the same as it always does. “It’s a beautiful day.”

“All right. Then let’s go and get Jorzy.”

I lead her along the street, turning right into Market Street, then coming into Market Square itself. It’s busy. Not everybody has gone to Via Parada. Yet we are quickly noticed. Cerels are always alert out on the street, wary of anything untowards, any unexpected flurry of activity, ready to slip away at the first sign of trouble, and this is an unusual event even for us.

“Freya,” a voice murmurs.

A short man in an overcoat and hat steps forwards, giving me a nod of recognition.

My mother stops, pausing tentatively with her cane. “I know your voice–”

The little man gently takes her hand and places it on his shoulder. “It is Hern,” he says simply.