A Travester tutor wearing the trademark blue beret of learning is bearing down on us, and I duck to one side to make way for him, eyes averted. When we’re walking along together again, I glance at Marina’s face to try to read her expression. We’re the same height, since I’ve shot up over the spring. I can still remember an earlier time when she held my hand when we walked to the market, and I had to look up to see her expression, to catch her laughter. Her profile is blank now, though amiable as always, gaze fixed forwards. The river is easier to read than my sister.

“We don’t have an aunt and uncle in the country,” I murmur into her shoulder, aware of the flapping ears of people passing on either side of us, Cerels and Travesters alike.

Marina gives me a dazzling smile, as if we’re talking about something else altogether. “I know,” she says, giving a few rapid blinks, “isn’t that amazing?”

Frustrated, I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, oblivious to the street. She’s like two sides of a coin, the head and the picture. In my confusion, I accidentally bump into a Travester merchant carrying a mug of hot chicory. A little of the drink spills onto the ground.

“See what you’ve done!” the man growls, raising his fist.

I cower away, expecting a blow.

But Marina is already hurrying me away by the elbow: “Sorry! Sorry!” she cries as we put distance between us and the Travester, who stands glaring angrily after us.

“Leho,” she scolds, “you must be more careful.” We’re about to turn into Via Parada, and Marina is still holding my elbow and hurrying me along as if afraid the Travester might be following.

Sulking, I shake her off. “Are you going to tell me what you’re up to?”

A look of sadness flashes across her face, quickly replaced by her usual calm smile: the two sides of the coin. “Ah, Leho.” She sighs. “If only I could.”

“But why can’t you?” I flash back, fists bunching in my pockets.

Marina’s footsteps sound quick and light along the pavement. She glances up nervously at the apartment buildings that face each other across the street, as if we might be overheard.

“It’s difficult,” she murmurs. Her neck is flushed, and her eyes are an empty slate. I haven’t seen my sister like this before and a worm of fear wriggles in my belly. “We have a story, you see … Nanna and I cooked it up. I’ve been ill. It’s probably the TB,” she gives me a sly look, “which is why I shall be coughing so much at the House of Law.”