A pair of workmen perched on ladders, re-painting the white finish on the back of the house. Watching them was a man—no, a woman—standing beneath the shade of a broad tree, smoking a cigarette. She had that long, lean look of a hero from a Yue opera—broad-shouldered, flat-chested, hair cropped short above the ears. Her skin was a paler shade of beige than Gean Choo’s, her nose broad, cheekbones high-set. She wore a loose, long-sleeved navy jacket with black trousers.

Gean Choo caught herself staring at the shape made by the woman’s full lips as she exhaled, breathing a cloud of smoke into the air. It wasn’t just the haircut, or the ambiguous clothing. Something about her… maybe it was the way she stood, unapologetically taking up space as if she had a right to be here, with no fathers or uncles or brothers or husbands to tell her “no.” Gean Choo didn’t think she’d ever seen a woman looking quite so self-possessed.

As they approached, the stranger turned her attention away from the workmen, her gaze narrowing in on Gean Choo, pinning her like an insect to a board. Her eyelids were smooth from lash to brow. “You’re late,” she said in Hokkien. Those few short, clipped syllables were enough for Gean Choo to recognise her as the person who’d interviewed her over the phone.

“This humble servant is very sorry.” Gean Choo lowered her eyes in contrition, staring at her shoes.

“There was trouble in town. Bad traffic,” Teck Beng said.

Gean Choo tossed him a look of gratitude.

“Mm.” The woman jerked her head to one side, and off he went, heading towards the outhouse. “I’m San Po Lam. You’ve met Uncle Teck Beng; he drives for Mrs. Edevane. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the staff and show you to your room.”

“Thank you.” Her room. As in… she wouldn’t have to share? Gean Choo couldn’t let herself hope.

As they started walking, Po Lam turned towards the main house and called out to one of the workmen. “Hey! This part between the windows needs another coat.”

The man glanced across at his work, balanced precariously on the spindly ladder. “It’s all right, it looks different only because the paint is still wet—”

“No. Another coat.”

The man grumbled under his breath, but he picked up the paint can and climbed down the ladder, dragging it back to the section Po Lam had indicated. Gean Choo followed her to the outhouse. There was a covered walkway connecting it to the main house, tiled in matching terracotta. Above them, sleek dark cables ran along the inside of the walkway roof.

“Does this house have electric?” Gean Choo asked.

“Yes. The generator’s over there,” Po Lam said, pointing out the small shed-like building. “Drops out occasionally.”