Doncia bounded three-at-a-time down the narrow stairs from her bedroom. Mother had already left; they had to get the laundry boiler going well before sunrise.

She tossed one coal into the remnants of the fire and worked the bellows to get it going. While her portion of gloppy porridge reheated she checked the cold safe. She placed the brown-paper-wrapped sandwich carefully into her satchel.

With a belly full of warm porridge, her satchel on her shoulder, and a last-minute check for her pocketwatch, she clicked the foyer door locked and stepped out into morning dazzle.

On Old Mirgaet Road shopkeepers were lowering their awnings against the sun, and the grocer was patting the chest of his horse as it backed a wagon of vegetables. Doncia made a quick detour through Hackney Lane to avoid the pickpockets. She climbed the collapsed redbrick wall of the old Delgarde factory, cut through the oily yard, and ducked under the chain fence.

A short amble uphill was the school, another crumbly redbrick building with only a few smeary windows. It squatted behind an ornate gate which usually hung invitingly open.

It was shut and padlocked.

Kids shoved and scrambled to read the poster on the brickwork. Doncia could only make out the larger print.

SCHOOL CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE

‘Hey!’ she shouted, pushing into the crush. ‘Let me see!’

‘It’s Doncia,’ said Brom, and the whole crowd turned to stare. Closest were some of the other fifteen-year-olds: Brom, Tiber, and Essie. Behind them was a handful of the younger kids. Right up at the notice was her best friend Piri Hutchings. Father was one of the whispered words.

The crowd reluctantly parted, and she squeezed in to read the fine print.

SCHOOL CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE

Mr. Langwish has suffered the touch and can no longer take classes. Until such time as a replacement can be found the school will remain closed.

By order, The Graf.

She closed her eyes, waited, and opened them again, but the words had not changed. Poor Mr. Langwish.

‘Just like your father,’ said Brom, smirking. The others just stared.

Doncia found the smooth shell of her pocketwatch in its pocket. Things started to blur, but warm fingers grasped her other hand.

‘Come on,’ said Piri.

Doncia didn’t really remember walking down from the Mount, or even through the old city, but somehow the bay glistened before them. Gulls called, and the smell of the weed on the beach cleared her head.

‘No school,’ Piri was saying. ‘That could be good.’ She jumped down onto the sand.

Doncia tugged off her boots and jumped down too. She felt the cool sand grains squeeze between her toes.

‘I suppose,’ she said.

They walked right to the edge and braved their feet to the icy water and tiny nibbling fishes.

‘Work,’ she confessed to Piri. ‘If there’s no school Mother will make me work.’

‘Me too. There must be some other teacher!’

‘The Graf’s only interested in the University. If you can’t pay to go he doesn’t care. If only Father....’

If only Father hadn’t gone crazy and left them.

‘Professor Javer got sick,’ said Piri, ‘there’s nothing you could have done.’