The heat was almost unbearable. “There’ll be a way off,” said Francis. “Someone will give us a lift.” I was only half paying attention. I was thinking about my mother’s message, about Kaolin, about Jean-Michel Ponge… “This place isn’t like Dream London,” I said. “In Dream London everything was shifting and growing. There, it was like the city was moulding people and places into what it wanted to be. Here, it’s like the people are stronger. They fought back against the changes, they moulded things to suit themselves.” “You mean the Revolution won?” “I don’t think so. The people at the restaurant last night certainly didn’t seem like revolutionaries. They were just playing a game. I think the Revolution is ongoing. Everyone speaks in its name, but they all have their own agenda. I can’t believe that the Banca di Primavera wants to give power to the people.” “No.” Francis rubbed his throat. “Why do you suppose the Banca di Primavera is so interested in your mother?”
