Except, it’s only what Papa would have done – what he once tried to do, before he got taken away. It’s only what all of us secretly think about. And the idea that Jorzy might be plotting something makes me twist and wriggle like an eel beneath the rough covers, trying and failing to get comfortable. Curled on my side, I stare at the dim wall across from my cubbyhole.

One part of me wants to join them. I hate the Director too. I would like to push the knife into his heart, or shoot the fatal crossbow arrow. Another part of me wants Jorzy to be safe. If you’re a Cerel, keeping safe means keeping a low profile. Keeping out of harm’s way. Not thinking, not planning, only accepting. Not that I can talk, with the explosive devices.

I flop onto my back with a sigh, and look at the dark ceiling only a foot or so above my face.

I’ve got a feeling that Jorzy and his friends have already made some kind of decision … maybe they’re even getting ready to act. The more I think about it, the more I’m certain I’m right. It’s like the instinct that tells me when to slip into a side alley, when to make myself scarce.

With a huff, I flip onto my front, pressing my nose into the musty pillow.

The way I understand it, there’s no real choice: I’ll have to help them. Even if they don’t know that I’m helping them. Better if they don’t know, or Jorzy might be angry. He might think I’m only a kid, yet I’ve got certain skills and I can use those skills to help my brother. Before it’s too late.

* * *

“Why’s your mother like that?” Bit asks out of the blue. It’s not something we’ve ever talked about before, though he must have heard the stories.

We’re fishing at my special spot on the river. We’ve left the dog with Ma; dog and woman curled up together on the bed. The river flashes with morning light. It trickles and meanders along, making its unstoppable way through the heart of the city. Here, we are hidden from the street up above by trees and a high metal bridge used only by the steamtrains. When a train puffs overhead (which isn’t very often) we duck beneath the trees, so even the passengers won’t see us.

The river forms a loose bend and there is a little island of river weed near the far bank. Fish might be sheltering in that bed of weed, so I like to cast my line up above it and let the float drift downstream.

“Like what?” I reply, hoping to head off a subject that brings up bad memories.