The girl, hanging back, is speaking intently to the birdcage woman. The woman glances at her wristwatch (a delicate, silvery thing around her pale wrist) and nods. Next thing I know, the girl is standing in front of me, her head cocked to one side, just like a raven, the bony dog in her arms goggling.

Caught out, I jump. So she had noticed me.

“Come on,” she says, impatient with me already. “I haven’t got that long.”

I trot after the girl, her boots tap-tapping quick as a heartbeat along the stone flags.

“But don’t follow so close,” she throws over her shoulder.

Obediently, I drop back. She turns into a covered alleyway with a vaulted glass ceiling. In a loading bay, two Travester men in overalls are lifting a huge wooden crate up into a docking area. The girl, taking no notice of them, keeps walking. I slink further back into the shadows, hoping the men won’t think I’m up to no good; except they’re too busy with their load. The way narrows again, then suddenly we’re in a wide, bright courtyard garden surrounded on all four sides by the walls of buildings. A fountain plays in the centre of the garden. There are useless little hedges, which come up to the height of my knees, containing the four squares of garden. Gravel paths run in-between.

The girl sits down on a bench opposite the fountain and puts her scrawny dog on the ground. It peers around, as if fearful of being pounced on at any moment, then trots over to the hedge and lifts a leg.

Sitting at the other end of the bench, I wonder if this is all right. Should I move further away? I’ve had nothing much to do with Travesters, so I don’t know the protocol. There are windows in the buildings looking down at us, yet no sign of people. I put my hands on my knees and stare at the fountain. The splash of water is a lovely sight, the sound soothing. It puts me in mind of things I can’t even begin to articulate. The little dog is bravely exploring the path now, and we both watch it.

“Were you following me?” the girl asks suddenly, not looking at me.

The question is too amazingly obvious to answer.

“You don’t talk much,” she says.

“What’s your name?” I ask, taking a forthright approach.

“Ah, it speaks,” she says airily. “My name is Emee.” I tell her my name. “That’s a nice name. I once had a little brown bear called Leho.” The dog starts digging in the gravel with its rat-like claws. “Do you have parents?”

“A mother,” I tell her. It’s too complicated mentioning my father.

“I’m an orphan,” she says, with some satisfaction.

I glance at her, surprised out of my shyness. I assumed that all Travester children have parents. “How come?”