We must be getting near the start of the lake district by now. It’s a bit of a worry, as maybe Cerels aren’t allowed near this stretch of the river. We could get into trouble just for being here. Yet there aren’t many people about, and having walked this far I have to keep going. Twice Travesters pass us, strolling along the path. Apart from getting odd glances, nobody says anything.

Then an old man appears up ahead. He’s dark-haired, so I know he’s a Cerel, in work clothes and boots, with a hoe over his shoulder. Bit and me exchange a look, but continue forwards. The old man starts talking even before he gets to us: “If you don’t have business here, boys, you’d best get back to your district.” And he stares at us darkly as he shuffles past.

We keep walking, yet I’m uneasy now.

“That old man’s right,” mutters Bit, “we should turn back.”

It’s true: we don’t belong here. I’m as nervous as a rabbit. But how can I turn back, when we’ve come this far? “Just one more bend,” I promise.

“And we haven’t even done any fishing,” Bit complains.

“We’re not prisoners in our own city,” I say, sounding like Jorzy. “One more bend, then we’ll turn back.”

A willow hangs over the path, obscuring the river ahead. The water is shadowy deep in the bend, mayflies lighting on its surface. If we weren’t so far from home, it would be a perfect spot to do some fishing. In the shadow of the willow, we pause to peer up ahead. There’s a long stretch of river beyond the bend, forested. On the far side of the river, however, lawn runs down to a small jetty and a beach of pale sand. And there it is, what I was looking for – a magnificent house set among yellow linden trees.

It’s like I’ve seen this house before. It’s almost exactly as I had imagined it. I almost expect to see the mermaid lounging on the sand, her tail in the water.

Bit heaves a sigh, patient as a donkey. “I don’t like it here,” he whispers. “I’m going back.”

“All right,” I reply softly. “I’m coming too.” I’ve seen enough, and the next time I come here, it’ll be on my own.

* * *

Nanna mutters to herself, stirring another pot of soup over the fire, and what I wouldn’t give for a nice juicy steak. I’m hunched drawing at the table as she talks to her pot.“Who will run their factories? Who will do all the dirty jobs that the women can’t do?” She throws in a handful of sorrel she found earlier today and I’m mischievously reminded of a witch in a forest.