Both me and Hern might have stayed fixed to the spot, except that Ma takes a step forwards, guiding us. Behind us the crowd mills, hesitating, then reluctantly follows. We walk across the stone plaza – the one place in the city I’ve never dared to explore. Even the sound of my boots on the stone flags seems exaggerated and alien to my ears. What the hell is my mother leading us into? I can hardly breathe. Yet at the same time my natural curiosity is alert to every detail. The glass and steel walls of the building loom above us. Up ahead are the huge double doors made of polished copper and decorated with black studs.

Before we even reach the doors, they swing open and a man steps out. He is wearing a smart black coat and holding a long polished stick that has a trident of black feathers at the top. His shoes are soft red leather with pointed toes. There is a trace of lipstick on his lips and powder on his cheeks.

“Halt, Cerels,” he says in a fluting voice, “you are trespassing.”

“I have come for my son,” says Ma in a firm voice, planting her cane. “Black Marks took him this morning. I want him back.”

The Travester’s face betrays no emotion. “Madam, I repeat, you are trespassing. You must leave this area immediately.”

“We are not leaving until my son is brought out to me.”

“Madam, you have no rights here.”

My mouth’s gone dry. Ma doesn’t respond to the man and simply stands her ground. The Travester, too, is immovable. It seems to be a stand-off and I can’t begin to imagine what’s going to happen next. Surely the Black Marks will come out now and drag us off to the secret cells beneath the House of Law.

Instead, another man appears, a senior officer. The mark of the bear is stamped on his black leather jacket.

I frown. This man seems familiar, but I can’t think how.

The officer steps past the Travester and walks right up to stand in front of my mother. The smell of his cologne is strong, and the scent throws me straight back to that room – my mother on the floor and the officer pissing on her. A chill shivers through me: it’s the very same man. Mr White.

“Surely,” he drawls, “you don’t want to risk all of these people’s lives for the sake of one mere Cerel?” His pale, straw-coloured eyes are fixed on my mother’s ravaged face.

Her nostrils have gone white. I know she’s recognised the voice, the scent, as surely as I have. The hand on my arm trembles and I fear she might faint.

“What would you give,” Mr White continues coolly, “in exchange for his life?”