Ma raises the goggles to wipe away tears from her eyes. She is brisk, as if there’s no time to waste. “We are going to get my son, Jorzy,” she tells the man.

He gives a nod and it’s obvious he already knows what has taken place.

“I’ll join you,” he says.

We set off again, Hern walking on my mother’s other side, cane tapping. It’s slow going, much to my frustration. Jorzy, even now, could be bleeding to death. But I can’t prevent the Cerels who come up to my mother – to touch her back, her shoulder, or to murmur a name. They all know her story. There will be people here who worked with my parents all those years ago, when they tried to free the city.

The flinty-eyed vegetable woman who always gives me a hard time steps in front of us, so we have to stop altogether. I shrink back, expecting harsh words, though the woman only touches the back of her hand to Ma’s cheek.

“It’s been too long,” says the woman, before going back to her stall.

By the time we reach the edge of the square, there is a small crowd of people following us at a distance. Glancing over my shoulder, I wonder with surprise what they think they’re doing. Surely these people will get in trouble if they come all the way to the House of Law? Names will be noted. Individuals might be questioned later. It is an unspoken rule among the Cerels that you don’t let yourself be tainted by another person’s misfortune. It’s not personal, or selfish, but it’s understood you keep yourself safe. And yet here they are, Cerels, out in the open, supporting my mother.

Ma can sense I’m agitated. “What is it, son?”

“Th-they’re coming with us.”

She nods. “That’s all right. Let them.”

The little man Hern leans forwards to address me as we walk. “People have had enough,” he says. “Oh yes, had enough. This is the final straw. Not all of us have been deceived by this rubbish about a precious land, you know. Some of us have more sense than that. I was born in this city, and I will not be coerced into leaving it.”

Ma, although pale, is smiling, and pats the man’s shoulder. “Well said, my friend.”

We are approaching Via Parada now. The crowd has dispersed, though the street has not yet been reopened, and workers are sweeping up litter. A man in a white apron is setting out chairs and tables in front of a cafe, although there are few people about. Even the airship has gone. There is no sign of the transport and I wonder if it’s taken its human load off to the Caucasas. The street feels sad and abandoned.