A light goes on in the small window beneath the eaves, the attic room, and I think of Emee in her bedroom, imagine her framed in the window, peering out romantically, as if pining for her admirer (me, of course!). Up above there’s a crescent moon hanging like a brooch in the black sky. I’m so busy studying the new moon I nearly miss her exiting the alleyway.

She’s hurrying along the street, oblivious to both passers-by and to a feral boy who shadows her, moving from one street lamp to the next, trying not to be seen. Where is she going? I haven’t seen her out by herself at night before. She’s got something in her hand.

It’s not far before she stops and faces me. Gah, so I’ve been spotted after all. There goes my reputation. It’s a thick envelope she has in her hand.

“What do you want?” she cries, exasperated, hand on her hip. “You’re always hanging around. My aunt has warned me about Cerel boys like you – pickpockets.” She struggles with the word.

“Pickpockets?” I take a step back. “You must be joking, right? Do you really think we’re all just petty thieves?”

“I don’t know what you are!” There is high colour in her cheeks. “You turn up on my doorstep, like a – like a waif – and I don’t know what you want.” Her face is defiant and she crosses her arms.

“I suppose your aunt is only looking out for you.”

“Of course she is,” Emee says bitterly. “But what do you know? I suppose you think I’ve got it easy because I’m in a Travester family.” She wrings her hands in a mock display of poverty. “Oh, I’m a hard-done-by Cerel, so hungry, so put-upon …”

“I never said I was put-upon,” I protest.

She reverts to her normal self, turns side-on to me. “If you must know, I’m alone in the world.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, no hint of self-pity. “They put up with me, that’s all, because of being related to my mother. If it wouldn’t seem so bad to all their friends, I’d be out on the street. Every moment of my life is guarded.” Her eyes flash. “I can’t say what I really think, what I really feel, in case I upset them and they get rid of me.”

My head is swimming with different emotions. It’s the most she has confessed to me, the most honest she has been, and I don’t know how to take it.

“I’m not put-upon,” I point out again, feeling prickly.