‘Baroque?’ There’s a harpsichord, doing something ornamental. That’s the basis of my guess, and I’m not even certain it’s a harpsichord I’m hearing. ‘Or maybe not.’ I’m picturing Nicola Porpora with a powdered wig, and buckles on his shoes. It’s a random baroque cliché, not a composer with any specificity.

‘Yes.’ The tilt of her head changes just a fraction, as if I’ve earned a reassessment. The reflection of one of the lounge room windows – a bright rectangle of sunlit forest green – catches on the lenses of her glasses. ‘Yes, it is baroque.’ She says it as if I’ve answered a question correctly, and surprised her by doing it.

She is well into her seventies, and stands with a straighter back than mine. She’s wearing black knit pants, a black sleeveless fleece jacket and a polo shirt in a plummy purple. Near her, a beanie lies flat on the back of a sofa, but for now Ellen’s head is bare, her short hair in loose grey curls that look natural rather than the result of anything deliberate. I expect she walked in the beanie this morning, or gardened, or perhaps she will once I’ve left. Her fireplace is set, and likely to be lit tonight. We are past the equinox.

‘My partner’s a music teacher,’ I tell her. ‘She’s a cellist herself. Or was. Is. I guess you don’t stop being one.’ Even if you stop playing. She plays when she teaches. I hear that sometimes, even if that’s the only time she plays now. ‘I think that’s the measurements done. I’ll put the numbers into the app and that’ll give us the square footage.’

I push the laser measure back into my jacket pocket and flip over the page on my clipboard. The agency paperwork is standard and I have most of it filled out already.

Ellen’s place is classic Girdwood, log construction on pilings, a shake shingle roof, an arctic entry for boots and outer clothes and the snow and mud they pick up. I’ve made a note of those. I put a three in the bedroom box and a one in the bathroom box. It’s a seventies house without the master ensuite people are starting to ask for, or the downstairs half bath.

‘Radiant heating throughout?’ I point to a nearby wall panel with my pen and she nods. ‘And the smoke detectors are recent?’

‘Yes. Two years old. Or thereabouts.’

‘They’re a good brand too, First Alert.’ Folksy endorsement easily becomes a habit in this job. I’m not sure it’s right for Ellen. ‘Do you mind?’ I move a chair over, stand on it, and poke the tip of my pen into the test button, which lets out an appropriately shrill tone. ‘And the kitchen and bathroom are original?’

I step down and take the chair back to the dining table.