She took up a kidney-shaped dish from her desk, laying in it was a box of matches, it was an ordinary box of matches such as I’ve seen many times before. There was a band of paper glued around the box to keep the drawer sealed. Written on the paper were the words SEALED FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE. There was a smudge upon it, a reddish-brownish smear on the cardboard, and one of the corners, I noticed, was missing a little bit. It looked like it had been snipped off neatly with scissors, but not making enough hole to see into the box. I shook the box, the matches inside rattled, that hole was not big enough for any of them to fall out. I suddenly felt exhausted. Just then, all of a sudden. I thought I should faint.

‘I don’t feel so well.’

‘That is quite usual.’

‘I feel a bit sick.’

‘Not to worry, child, you are liable to feel a little strange for a day or two. Your arm might ache.’

‘Because of what you did to it,’ I said.

‘The aching is nothing to be concerned about, it means the medicine is working. Well then, enough, my dear?’ Mrs Piggott asked.

‘Enough what?’

‘I think that’s enough time spent together for now; you may see it again, if your behaviour is up to the mark, in a few days’ time and thereafter once a week.’

‘To see this matchbox?’

‘Yes, indeed. But only if you are very good.’

‘Why should I want to see it?’

‘You will, you will. That matchbox has been chosen particularly for you. It represents you perfectly.’

‘Who chose it?’

‘Upstairs chose it. My lady chose it. Ommaball Oliff Iremonger herself. It is just for you; we all have our birth objects. Each is perfectly selected to describe us exactly.’

‘Whoever chose it never met me,’ I said. ‘It’s all madness!’

‘How she strikes like a match. She is such a deep one, my lady is.’

‘It’s all nonsense,’ I said.

‘Now then, give it to me,’ said Mrs Piggott. ‘Hand it over please.’

‘Take it for all I care,’ I said and gave her the matchbox, dropping it back in the bowl.

‘And now,’ said Mrs Piggott, ‘it shall be sealed for your convenience. It’s going somewhere very safe. Mrs Smith!’

In came the strange sight that was Mrs Smith.

She was a big, flat-faced woman, with flushed cheeks. There were keys clanking and clinking all about her, around her large waist was a thick belt from which hung many rings from which hung many keys. At first impression it seemed she was wearing a skirt over her dress, a strange jangling metal skirt, but it was all the keys of Iremonger Park; she looked after them, every one. Keys hung from her hips and from a great necklace, and several smaller keys she kept in the loops of her earrings.