Scents of ginger and green onion wafted from the kitchen. She smoothed the front of her shirt, making sure none of the buttons had popped loose, then went back to the main part of the outhouse. The rest of the staff were already seated around a large, round table. In addition to the three she’d already met, there were a pair of older Chinese men, so alike they must’ve been twins. Neither of the painters were there, perhaps because they weren’t part of the house.

Seok Eng nudged out a seat for her, still wearing the same kindly smile. She sat.

Po Lam put down her chopsticks for a moment to introduce her to the other two men.

Gean Choo smiled nervously. “Good evening.”

Conversations happened around her in a mix of Hokkien, Hainanese, and Cantonese. Seok Eng had a niece who was getting married. The two houseboys in their fifties were indeed twins, so similar she couldn’t tell them apart at first glance. The eldest one had a wife nagging him to return to Hainan, but he already had a concubine and another son in town. He had to be doing well for himself if he could maintain two families.

“Slow down,” Teck Beng muttered to her. “You’ll choke.”

Gean Choo paused with chopsticks halfway raised to her lips. She set them down, swallowed, and smiled politely. “It’s because Aunty’s food is so delicious, I can’t help myself.”

Seok Eng picked up a clump of noodles and fried tofu and dumped them into Gean Choo’s bowl, as if she were an honoured guest and not her junior. “Don’t embarrass the girl. She’s a skinny little thing only.”

Gean Choo took a sip of tea and burnt her tongue. She’d expected to be too nervous for a large meal, but her stomach had other plans. “Does everyone live on the estate?” she asked.

“Only you, me, the boss,” Teck Beng said, using his chopsticks to point. If Po Lam minded, she didn’t show it. “The day staff don’t live here.”

“Day staff?”

“The rest of us,” Seok Eng said. “We’ll be heading home soon, but we’ll be back in the morning. There’s Alif also, the gardener. You’ll meet him tomorrow.”

Over the phone, Po Lam had described the job as being a kind of lady’s companion. “Does this mean the mem is an insomniac?”

“She keeps odd hours, rising at seven in the evening, going to bed around six in the morning,” Po Lam said. “Starting tomorrow, you’ll match those hours.”

Eleven hours on duty. That didn’t seem so terrible, even if they weren’t daylight hours. “Is she ill?”

A delicate pause fell over the table, like a carpet of flowers settling over an empty street. “She values her privacy,” Po Lam said. “Her health is a matter for herself and her doctor.”