A few days later, and with the excuse of finding a new fishing spot, I lead Bit along the riverbank, onto the towpath and away from our own district, further than I’ve even been myself, and past the Bridge of Angels that leads to the Travester side of the river. I’ve brought some crusts with me, in case it takes all day, and a canteen of water. Hopefully there’ll be an apple tree or some blackberries on the way. I don’t want to say anything to Bit, in case I’m wrong, but I’ve a theory there was a clue in Jorzy’s story about the mermaid and I want to check it out for myself.

“My uncles used to go fishing at the Grey Lake,” Bit is yakking away. “Mam says they used to get heaps of fish there. Nice fish, too – blue trout.”

My mind is on other things, so I don’t bother commenting. There are several lakes dotted around the outskirts of Ursa, but Cerels aren’t allowed near them these days. Only Travesters are allowed to fish the lakes. Wistfully, I imagine hooking one of those renowned blue trout.

“I’ve heard,” says Bit, scuffing along the gravelly path, “they have nudie parties at the Grey Lake.”

I laugh. “Nah.”

“True. They take off all their clothes and swim in the nudie.”

“The bugs’d eat them alive.”

“Yeah.” Bit smiles.

We come into a more forested area. Houses are set back among trees. Big proper houses, all by themselves, not joined together like they are in our part of the city. Houses with gardens all around them. Then my breath catches in my throat: there’s a woman sitting in a little white-framed bower, reading a book.

“See that?” whispers Bit.

We stand on the path, staring. “She’s reading a book,” I marvel, wondering where she got it from. Bet she’s a rich Travester; maybe she’s got a whole library of them in her house, maybe even taken from one of the destroyed libraries.

“Not doing anything,” adds Bit, “except reading a book. Just as well my Mam can’t see that.”

We set off again, though Bit is slowing down, anxiety apparent in his very gait.

“D’you think we’re allowed along here?”

“Don’t see why not,” I say casually, trying to hide my own nerves, when in fact I want to be slinking along under the cover of bushes. “There’s a path. A public path.”

“Yeah,” says Bit, unconvinced.

We carry on quietly, not speaking, slipping through dappled shadows cast by the leafy trees. Insects are buzzing in the grasses. Twice, we pass a street of houses that ends at the river. Then more trees. Once, a park – sloping green lawn with a white band rotunda. I picture the birdcage woman and her friends dancing in a stately manner on the lawn to a string quartet.