From behind the stone lion, I watch as a group of Travesters come out of the building and lock the door behind them with a large key. I’m thinking they must have a lot of valuable things in there, if they lock their doors. There is the woman from the party, the one with the birdcage in her hair. Her hair is flat now, and curled around the top of her head like a snake. There’s a man in a long coat and top hat. Another man with a cane. A smaller woman, with a sliver of velvet perched on her head, is talking to the birdcage woman. Another man, clean-shaven. And the girl with her tiny dog.

This group of smartly dressed people set off walking down the street, the girl dawdling at the rear. Which is the mother? The father? They seem more like strangers to each other than family.

I jump down from the lion and slouch after them.

The group heads towards the fashionable part of the city. They don’t once look back, not one of them, so I relax and stroll along behind, as if I belong to this part of the city as well. Truth be told, I probably couldn’t even get a job over here scraping plates in a restaurant or cleaning toilets. Not that I care. I can come into this area whenever I feel like it, to scavenge and spy. One time I found a gold ring, just lying on the street. Nanna sold it and bought meat and medicine and two woollen blankets.

The buildings are cleaner over this side of Ursa: the stone is butter-yellow, and the window glass gleams shiny-clean. Even the pavement is nicer, with smooth stone flags, not the rough cobbles in our district that kids pull up to throw at each other. It makes me feel good, walking these rich streets.

Despite my rambling thoughts, I keep my eye on the group ahead. As they pass people they know, the men doff their hats. Behind them, I also doff an imaginary hat.

How de do, missus. How de do, sir.

There are shops now, fine shops with big glass windows. Not like the mingy ones over in Tor Street. A jewellery shop displays only a single necklace that glitters on a black velvet bust. A tailor’s shop has a stately mannequin that stares haughtily down at me, and I thumb my nose at it. There’s even a shop that sells only flowers – the scent assails me like a clout round the head. What the hell do they do with flowers?

Up ahead, the group is turning into a cake shop.

Casually, I slip into a nearby doorway.