She’d read about personifates, but she couldn’t believe how convincingly life-like they appeared, yet shifted a little. Seeing them walk along the street and talk was extraordinary, like spotting a tree with pink leaves, or if the moon suddenly became square.

A rabbit hopped between their feet.

“Do excuse me,” he said in a low voice.

Prue spun around to watch it leap away, but her muscles froze, and she gave a little gasp – a lynx prowled metres from her.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Craftsman Primrose. “I do rather take it for granted living here, but personifates come in many forms for a variety of reasons. It’s quite usual, nothing to worry about.”

Prue couldn’t help but take a quick step back.

“Good afternoon, Craftsman Primrose. Successful trip, I see,” said the lynx personifate, looking Prue up and down. “There is talent to be found outside of the city after all.”

“Indeed.” Craftsman Primrose smiled.

The lynx dipped her head amiably and carried on through the crowd.

“They’re voices are so … human. There’s no hint of machine,” Prue said, amazed.

“We’ve developed high-tech voice boxes which seem to replicate how they sounded in the first life.”

Prue couldn’t wait to learn more.

Craftsman Primrose looked up and called to several birds perched on a chaos lamp above. “Messenger, please!”

He put his arm out just in time for a kestrel to land on it.

“Ah yes, perfect.” He glanced at Prue. “Only personifates that can pass as wildlife are allowed to deliver messages outside of Medlock. They are restricted from interacting with any humans on their journeys to prevent any panic or unease. We don’t want to frighten your parents, do we?” He smiled at Prue, who suddenly noticed that not only birds flew above, but there were some more unusual-looking creatures in the distance, including what appeared to be a flying hare – and a wolf with wings!

“Have you got the note you wrote to your parents?” he asked.

Prue held it out.

“Good. Tie it to the leather rope around her neck.”

She carefully attached the rope to the kestrel, her hands suddenly shaky as she accidentally brushed its feathers. They felt so real.

Craftsman Primrose addressed the bird. “If you could deliver this to Mrs and Mr Haywood; you’ll find them in a little farm in a valley just north of a village called North Owlcot, which is north of Staplefield, which is north of Batterthwaite. Thank you for your service.” Craftsman Primrose dipped his head respectfully.

“Of course, Craftsman Primrose,” said the kestrel in what sounded entirely like the voice of an old woman. The kestrel took flight and swiftly disappeared from sight.

“Is everything all right, Frances?”

She realized her mouth was wide open. “It’s just I didn’t expect them to be quite so real; I imagined them to be more machine-like. Perhaps upgraded versions of what we have on the farm.”