Now we’re on Via Parada, where the Cerel ladies and gents once took their evening stroll by the river, according to Nanna. The smooth dark water glints in the sunlight. Despite my concern for Marina, I automatically check for any fish below the surface of the water.

Marina sucks in a breath and continues her explanation, or briefing, more like. “I’m asking for a special dispensation so I can recuperate in the country, where, as everybody knows, the air is much better than in the city. I shall get to eat fresh farm vegetables, and of course, last but not least, not infect any poor Travester I should happen to meet.” My sister smiles and lowers her voice. “They’re terrified of the TB,” she says, sounding like Nanna.

At the bridge, instead of crossing the river, we turn left into Merchant’s Way. The famous glass dome of the House of Law is just visible between roofs to our right. This is a street of small specialty shops – handmade chocolates, intricate wooden toys and contraptions, dainty shoes. There’s a tiny cake shop, its front composed of thick glass bricks put together like a jigsaw. The tantalising aroma of roasting chicory drifts out into the street and I half expect to see Emee and her birdcage aunt coming out of the shop, carrying boxed cakes.

“It doesn’t matter what the real story is,” I mutter, padding along beside this mysterious woman, my sister, “you don’t need to tell me!” It’s annoying not being told the truth, though I’ll find out soon enough. I suppose she’s trying to protect me. As we all protect each other, in one way or another. It isn’t a matter of lying, or of being secretive – too much information can get you hurt. Sometimes I think of my family as a hive of bees, where each bee has its own task, its own specific knowledge; together, you make up a whole.

“The Haretts have already kicked me out,” she sniffs, peering at the window of a haberdashery as we walk past. “Poor things,” she sighs ironically, and flips me a look. “They’ve probably disinfected the whole house.” Then she gives a girlish giggle.

Her humour is infectious, like the TB, and I grin: the joke is on the Travesters in the end.

Glancing up, I see we’re approaching the corner of Law Parada, at the end of which is the House of Law, and I make my face go blank. It isn’t wise to be seen smiling and giggling along this street. We keep to one side of the pavement and hurry along beneath the linden trees, trying to look insignificant, not worthy of attention.