Jorzy struggles, seems to make an effort. With my help, he starts to get to his feet. He turns his head and spits a mouthful of blood and teeth onto the floor.

“Can you walk?”

“I … think so.”

Leaning heavily on me, we make our way out of the room. In the corridor, Jorzy comes to a stop.

“What?” I cry, desperate now to get us both out of the inferno. “What is it?”

Jorzy seems to straighten. “There are others,” he says simply.

Looking wildly along the corridor, I see what I didn’t notice before: the row of locked doors. How long do we have? More screams come from up above. There’s a crashing, splintering sound, like a beam falling.

“We have to go!” I’m really desperate now.

But Jorzy doesn’t budge. “It won’t take a minute.”

Right. I’ve got no choice, so run to the first closed door. The lock is a simple bar that lifts easily enough. Flinging open the door, I find three people huddled inside. They’re in such a bad way my heart goes out to them, and I realise that if not for us, they would have been left to suffocate in their cell.

“The House of Law is burning,” I tell them urgently. “You have to get out.”

They don’t need any more persuading, and hurry out as best they can.

Jorzy, in spite of his weakened state, staggers to the next door and lifts up the bar. Together, we open all of the doors. Cerels scramble, crawl, run – out of the cells and up the stairs. I take hold of my brother again and guide him towards the stairs. Above us, flames leap up the glass walls.

“What a sight,” murmurs Jorzy, with a bloodied grin. “I told you, didn’t I?”

Panting, muscles screaming, I prop up my brother. It looks like he’s about to pass out.

“Told me what?” I say, trying to hurry us up the rest of the steps and out.

Despite his injuries, Jorzy smiles. “A revolution,” he says.

23

Two days later, I’m pushing the handcart that carries the body of my mother, wrapped in a sheet, through the cobbled streets to the Cerel cemetery.

Nanna walks on one side of me, her hand on my shoulder. My father – free at last! – walks on my other side, holding Babet’s hand. Every now and then Papa gives me a look, as if he can’t believe he’s here either. He’s a bit grizzled and there are scars on his hands, but otherwise he’s the Papa I remember from before the wild camp. Jorzy limps along behind with the aid of a walking stick. People come to their doorways and watch us pass. Faces peer down from grimy windows. Figures slip in behind to join what is obviously a sombre procession. Boots on cobbles are the only sound.