avenue that leads into town, pedalling faster. ‘This is Princes Boulevard. It’s where all the rich people used to live, like a hundred years ago. Mostly flats now, though. Can you imagine it with horses and carriages and crinoline dresses? Liverpool was dead posh, once.’

The breeze ruffles my hair and lifts it out behind me. I gaze up at the crumbling terraced houses with their big bay windows and litter-strewn gardens and try to imagine them a hundred years ago. What would those long-gone people make of us, a boy in angel wings and a girl in pyjamas, riding through the night on an antique bicycle? We pedal on.

‘Hang on,’ Dan says. ‘We’re turning…’

The bike wobbles slightly as we take the corner, and I fall back against Dan before getting my balance again. A huge, dark building towers over us suddenly, vast and terrifying. Spotlights cast an orange glow over its ancient gothic arches and pinnacles.

It’s a little like the elegant, ancient churches we have back in Krakow, but squarer, more solid, somehow.

‘This is the Anglican cathedral,’ Dan says. ‘Spooky, huh? They do good tea and scones in the cafe… not at night, obviously. And not as good as the ones Mum makes!’

We ride on through the dark, deserted streets. Dan points out the Catholic cathedral, which I know already from Sunday Mass, the university, art college, even the Jewish synagogue. Then we cycle back along Princes Boulevard and swoop down into the park. Dan takes a blanket from the bike basket, spreading it out over the dew-wet grass beside the boating lake, and unfolds a parcel of iced cakes wrapped in a red-checked tea towel.

‘Breakfast,’ he tells me. ‘Like it?’

‘It’s perfect, Dan. Thank you!’

‘This is just the start… a taster, if you like,’ Dan says. He picks up one of the little cupcakes and bites into it, grinning. ‘There’s loads more I can show you. Liverpool’s cool. Seriously!’

As I bite into the golden sponge cake and the sweet, melty frosting, I can almost believe him. The sky above us pales, and watercolour washes of pink and gold and orange seep over the horizon. Trees that looked skinny and stunted in daylight seem tall and elegant now, their branches silhouetted against the dawn.

I guess even the most unlikely places can feel special, if you’re with the right person – or if you know how to look.

Right now, though, I’m tired… and worried too. If Mum and Dad discover I’m missing, they’ll go crazy.

‘I must go,’ I whisper, and Dan just smiles and gets to his feet, shaking out the blanket, lifting the bike upright again.

As we ride out through the park gates, a little milk float is buzzing its way along the street. Cartons of milk have already been left on the step by the door of the flat.

‘Hang on to me, really tight,’ Dan says, and I lean into him, waiting for a jolt or a wobble or a swerve. It doesn’t happen. The bike comes to a slow, smooth halt outside the flat.

‘Why must I hold tight?’ I ask, and Dan just laughs.

‘Because I like it when you do,’ he says. ‘I guess you can let go now, Anya. If you really want to…’

‘Dan!’ I protest. I slide to the pavement, and he adjusts the white-feathered wings and rides away, grinning. I bend and pick up the milk. The door to the flat swings open and Dad appears, dressed for work.

‘Anya,’ he says, surprised. ‘You’re up early… I didn’t hear you moving about. Were you collecting the milk?’

‘Mmm,’ I say, hiding the lie with a yawn.

‘Good girl. I thought I’d get an early start today. There are a few things I need to sort out. I’ll try not to be so late back tonight.’

Dad kisses the top of my head and walks away, and I slip into the flat just as the clock turns seven.

There is just one problem with going out to watch the dawn… it kind of wrecks you for school the next day.

I yawn all the way through French and maths and finally fall asleep in history. Frankie jabs me in the ribs just as I am dreaming of picnics in the park in my pyjamas with a boy who may or may not be an angel.

‘Wake up,’ she hisses. ‘At least pretend to listen. What’s up with you?’

‘Sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I had a late night. Dan came over…’

Frankie’s eyes are wide. ‘Whoa… be careful, Anya. I’ve told you before… that boy is bad news.’

‘Frances