There are smaller windows on the upper floor, and I wonder if it’s another apartment where another family lives. But then, Travesters don’t huddle together like we do; they don’t have to. They might have the whole building for themselves. Which room would belong to the girl, and what would such a room look like? Maybe she’ll have pictures that she’s drawn stuck on the wall, like Marina has tacked up for Babet. Pictures of unicorns and dancing monkeys. How many other children live in the house? And more importantly: how can I get another sweetmeat?

Eventually the lights go out. Reluctantly, I climb down from my perch and head home, feeling strangely lonesome as if the guitar has cast its spell over me. I think about the girl weaving among all those people at the party, and how she looked different from them, the odd one out, the way I feel sometimes, even though I’ve got people all around me. As I trudge through Market Square, I plot how I can meet her again.

* * *

“Hello Ma,” I call out the next day, entering her room. A sliver of light from the shutters falls across her hands, her face, and her lips are moving – I can tell by her staunch expression that she’s rehearsing more phrases for the pamphlets.

She raises her chin towards me, and smiles. “Leho!”

I nod at the grimy boy standing nervously behind me, and go over to the spindle-back chair where my mother sits. “Come on,” I say to Bit, who is still lingering in the doorway.

“Who else is there?” she asks sharply, aware now I’m not alone.

“Only me, missus,” says Bit in his reedy voice.

“Call me Freya,” says Ma.

“He’s from the building down the street,” I explain.

“Ah.” She smiles. “Hello. I don’t get many visitors these days.”

I could say something about that – like how she doesn’t allow visitors, unless they are trusted, how she doesn’t like to go outside in case the Black Marks single her out, how she thinks she’s protecting all of us by staying hidden – yet I keep my mouth shut.

Lifting one of her hands, I rest it on the head of the dog Bit has got on a lead. A white and tan mongrel with brown eyes.

Ma jerks her hand back. “What–?”

“It’s all right,” I say quickly, “it won’t bite.”

Me and Bit exchange a worried glance. I thought she’d like the surprise, except maybe I was wrong. Yet she reaches out tentatively and feels the animal’s soft coat. Then she moves her hands over its face, feeling the drooping ears, the long snout, the hairy chin.

“Oh, Leho,” she sighs, and I know it’s going to be all right.