Though I already know that, from the books we burn in the stove when there’s no wood to be had. Books burn good and fierce, but they burn too fast. Pretty soon all you have is a pile of black ashes. It’s kind of funny: the Black Marks burn books because they hate them. Cerels burn books to keep warm.

Either way, they’re banned now, the books.

First they closed the libraries. Now they’re being cleared out. It’s all by the Director’s say-so. His so-called “edicts” that come to us by way of roughly printed leaflets that the Black Marks stick up all round the place. I still remember going to the library, when I was a wee sprat. The libraries that were once open to all peoples, Cerels included, but they’ve been closed for years. Now that gracious stone building in front of us will be used for Travester activities, whatever that means. Parties, probably.

“Leho, is it time?” Bit hisses in my ear.

“Soon,” I hiss back at him. The longer I can put it off the better. It’s reckless, I know, and I don’t want to think about what it’d do to Ma – or the others – if I got caught, but sometimes you just have to do a thing.

They dump another cartload of books out the library doors, like tossing a body down the steps towards the fire. Three Black Marks, who must be sweating in their heavy woollen tunics, scoop up armfuls and heft them into the flames. Sparks fly up into the dark. A senior Black Mark, the bear insignia pinned to his collar, is standing off to one side with folded arms, supervising. Miniature twin fires are reflected in his eye goggles. The sight makes me shiver, and I move backwards deeper into the shadows, my back pressing against Bit’s knees. It’s curfew, as usual, but we’ve come out anyway, like I do most nights.

Not that I’ve been caught – yet. The city’s like a map I’ve drawn myself. Certainly the Cerel part of it: the ghettos where we live. I can run and slink through the city, avoiding unwelcome attention. I know the alleyways and sewers and secret passageways through the city, the kinds of places the Black Marks don’t use. I’m thin enough to squeeze through a bathroom window, or through a stormwater grating, or shimmy up spouting. The Black Marks call the city of Ursa their own, but it also belongs to me and my friends.

Bit shuffles uneasily behind me. “I don’t like waiting so long.”

“All right,” I tell him, ready to go anyway.