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you think it means?’ said Leo.
    ‘I don’t know.’
    He was standing frozen again, in front of the window. I touched his arm, and he started. ‘Try and get some sleep,’ I said.
    ‘What if they come back?’
    ‘They won’t. Not now that it’s daylight.’
    ‘Anselm, what do you think they were doing?’
    I shook my head. I did not know either.
    I did not sleep again that night. There were too many thoughts in my mind, chasing quickly on each other. And from the creaking of the living-room floorboards, I could tell Leo was still there, pacing up and down in the dark. Apart from the gunshots and those chanting men, I could not help thinking of Harold North. I knew he was dead; we all knew it. But I had never properly considered the pain it caused Leo not to be sure.
    Before Mass, when the city was still cold with the early morning shadows, there was a knock at the side door. It was Mr Pascal, with the newspaper folded under his arm. ‘Well, well,’ he said, coming in and shaking the dust off his boots. ‘And did you hear the gunshots last night?’
    Leo was lighting the stove, but he straightened up now, hitting his head hard on the stove lid.
    ‘What gunshots, Mama?’ murmured Jasmine.
    ‘It was nothing,’ said Leo.
    ‘Jasmine, go upstairs and get your boots,’ said my mother.
    Jasmine ignored that. Mr Pascal glanced about the shop as if settling for a long stay. Then he unfolded the newspaper and spread it out on the counter. It was a tradition with him to bring it into the shop nearly every morning and lecture us on the contents, and we had never been able to think of a way to dissuade him. But today was different; today there was something in it. The front page was half taken up with a line drawing depicting men with torches and rifles marching in ranks past the castle rock.
    ‘Look,’ said Mr Pascal, pointing to several different places in the text. ‘Militant members of the Imperial Order … rebel government officials … illegal rally.’
    ‘What do they want?’ said Leo.
    ‘They want to take over the country,’ said Mr Pascal. ‘Listen here: “Shots were fired and a disused shop burned. The police moved in after a local trader alerted them to the situation. Sixteen arrests were made.”’
    The newspaper had all the spelling mistakes of a rushed morning edition; they must have reprinted it in the last hour.
    Jasmine was clambering onto a chair, trying to see over my mother’s shoulder. ‘Mama, Mama!’ she whined, tugging my mother’s sleeve. ‘What does it say?’
    ‘Nothing important,’ said my mother. ‘Come on, put on your shawl. It is nearly time to leave for Mass.’
    ‘It all makes sense in my view,’ said Mr Pascal, lighting a cigarette and turning to address Leo. ‘The new Alcyrian government are criminals; they effected what was no more than a military coup, and yet no one has been able to bring them to justice. So now the New Imperial Order wants to do the same thing in every country on the continent. And it gives those old supporters of Lucien something to hope for. They say this will be the hardest winter for a long time, and not only that, they say—’
    But whatever else they said was interrupted by another knock at the door. It was Michael and his parents.
    ‘Did you hear the gunshots?’ Mrs Barone asked my mother as soon as they were over the threshold.
    ‘No, we were asleep. But Leo and Anselm did.’
    ‘Why won’t anyone tell me what’s happening?’ Jasmine was demanding, tugging my sleeve now.
    ‘Hush,’ said my mother. ‘Go and put on your boots.’
    Mrs Barone was questioning Mr Pascal anxiously. As the only possessor of the morning edition of the newspaper, he knew more than even they did. Mr Barone said nothing, just shook his head and ran his hands over his hair. He looked very old and helpless standing there in the doorway. Michael touched my shoulder. ‘Are you going to Mass today?’ he said.
    ‘Yes, I think so.’
    ‘Some people