The next day, I go back across the stone bridge and make my way to the house watched over by the lions. An hour goes by; another. I should be down at the river, trying to catch a fish. I doze for a bit, propped in the sun against the lion’s back. A caretaker comes out and shakes his fist, chasing me away from the spot, but as soon as the grouch has gone back inside, I take up my vigil again. Perhaps another hour passes. I count automobiles (five), airships (three), a matchstick seller (one), birds in the sky (numerous).

I’m about to give up when Emee appears in the doorway.

She crosses the street, holding the little dog, and sits just below me on one of the steps between the lions.

“Stay there,” she says, not turning her head, “where they won’t see you … I’m exercising Min-Min.” She puts the dog down on the step and pulls out a length of ribbon, dangling it above the dog’s nose as you might play with a cat. Her hair, dazzling gold in the sunlight, is also tied with a ribbon.

“I think you are my secret admirer,” she says.

I snort, yet in fact it’s not too far off the truth. She is fascinating to me, simple as that. Underneath there’s more to it than that; we’re alike, even though we’re on opposite sides.

“You must be hungry, sitting out here all day long.” She sighs. “That’s the sign of a true admirer. You’re willing to give up food, water, comfort, just for a glimpse of your beloved.”

My pride kicks in then; there’s only so much I can tolerate. “Where’d you get a ridiculous idea like that?”

She shoots a slightly hurt glance at the lion I’m leaning against. “It’s not ridiculous. Every girl wants a secret admirer. Of course,” she adds haughtily, “you don’t really count because you’re a Cerel.” The little dog is prancing up and down the steps after the ribbon. “My best friend has two secret admirers. One of them leaves a single red rose under her window every night. The other one writes her beautiful poems. It’s ever so romantic.” She sighs again.

All this talk about admirers and roses – and I bet that part about the roses isn’t true – makes me look more closely at Emee. It’s funny I didn’t notice before, but she’s not perfect. I’ve been distracted by her floaty dresses, her dog and her shiny hair, and hadn’t noticed that her nose is a bit too squashed, and her blonde eyebrows are too thick, and her eyes are a bit too close together.

“So what else do you do?” I ask. “Apart from pine for secret admirers?”