“Oh.” What did the tuan do to afford all this? Plantations, probably. Or tin, perhaps.

Po Lam took her shoes off before entering the outhouse and Gean Choo followed suit. They stepped into a kitchen filled with the warm, dense aroma of something earthy. Mushrooms? A woman stood with her back to them, whisking something in a bowl with a pair of chopsticks.

“Aunty Seok Eng, this is Teo Gean Choo,” Po Lam said, raising her voice again to be heard over the clatter of the whisking.

“Eh?” Seok Eng partially turned from the bench top. She had a kind, round face, her forehead dripping with sweat, cheeks red from the sweltering heat of the kitchen. She was perhaps in her fifties, with a towel thrown over her shoulder. The once white towel—now with a yellowish tinge from constant use—was embroidered in red with the sentiment “Good morning,” in English, and presumably, in Hanzi.

“Oh! Welcome!” Seok Eng said in a tone that set Gean Choo on edge. It was too sympathetic by halves, as if Gean Choo had lost a bet instead of securing a prized job. “Makan in twenty minutes, okay?”

“Thank you,” Po Lam said. They continued, and she led Gean Choo down a hallway, opening a door. “This is your room. The bathroom’s down there if you need to wash before dinner. Don’t be late.”

Gean Choo touched her hair, wondering if she was more unpresentable than she’d imagined. “Of course. Thank you. I mean… I won’t be.”

“What’s wrong with your hand?”

She’d almost forgotten, since the cut didn’t even hurt anymore. “It’s nothing. A scratch.”

“Recent?”

“This afternoon.”

“Wait here.”

Po Lam left her for a moment and then came back with a battered tea caddy, the words “Gold Leaf” still visible in faded letters. She handed it over. “Wash and redress the wound. If it’s still bleeding, wrap it again, properly this time. Use two rolls of bandages.”

“It’s really just a scratch—”

“Mrs. Edevane is sensitive to smells.” Po Lam clicked her tongue. “Particularly the smell of blood. If I’d known, you wouldn’t be here.”

She was so close. She’d been assigned a room—a whole room!—Po Lam had introduced her to the others—she couldn’t let this be her undoing. “Is it… is it because of her faith? I’m not menstruating—”

“So you said.”

They’d spoken about the embarrassing matter at some length when Po Lam had interviewed her over the phone, which was to say they’d exchanged more than half a dozen words on the subject. Po Lam had said that if her courses arrived, she’d have to leave the premises until they were over. It seemed an unlikely problem since she hadn’t bled for some months now, even though she was in no danger of being with child.