“Yes.”

“Then you’ll already know what caused this.”

“I’ve forgotten. Subsidence?”

“No, the ground underneath was solid. The foundations were prepared in the same way as the ones I showed you yesterday.”

“Were they not slotted together properly?”

“No—there was a mistake when the boards were being cut. The wood had been incorrectly loaded so the grain was pointing the wrong way and the boards were weak. The central support beam of this wall tore straight through them.” Iona straightened up. “Nine people were killed.”

“Including your colleague.”

“Yes,” said Iona. Weston had been on-site, consulting on modifications to the design, when the collapse had occurred. It could easily have been her standing by that wall.

Mistakes happened. She made plenty herself. She didn’t feel angry at whoever had made this one. But she hoped they were not in a position to repeat it. There were plenty of other jobs they could be moved to.

“So what are they going to do about it?” asked Alyssa.

“They’re building a support structure for this wall and then they’ll finish the building. They’ll be able to publish three editions of the newspaper a week when it’s done.” Although she wasn’t sure what would fill those extra editions, since a bigger building didn’t mean there was more news to report.

“And they’re just going to finish it to the original design? Even though it was dangerous?”

“It won’t be dangerous, we know what the problem was. I think the feeling is it would be a fitting tribute to Weston to complete his design as he intended.”

“So this was all him? You weren’t involved?”

“No.”

“But you’ve designed more buildings in the city than anyone else.”

“I haven’t counted.” But it was true. She didn’t need to count.

“You’ve been doing it longer than anyone else, haven’t you?”

Iona hesitated. “I have been doing it a long time . . .”

“But when did you start?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Alyssa gave her a relaxed smile and shrugged. Her hands were in the pockets of her coat again. “I’m just interested. I thought it’d be a simple question.”

Iona nodded slowly. “It should be a simple question. But I don’t know.” She tried to think back—when had she started doing this? What did she do before?—but all she found inside herself was a rising sense of panic. Focusing on the question was like staring at the sun—no, the opposite. It was like staring into the void, like facing an awful truth she couldn’t bear to acknowledge, that she could only cope with by looking away. She felt nauseous and dizzy, and involuntarily put a hand on Alyssa’s shoulder to steady herself. The younger woman flinched.

“Are you alright?” Alyssa asked.

“Yes,” said Iona. “I’m tired. Can we finish this tomorrow?”

“Do you need me to walk you home?”

Iona shook her head. She was already making her way back to the gap in the fence. “I’ll catch a rickshaw.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”