“Yes, I know the one you mean,” said Jean without thinking.

“I would ask Margaret to bring it on Saturday, but it’s a bit bulky for her to carry.”

“Of course. I’ll call in tonight after work and pick it up.”

“Thank you. It gets so cold here in the basement.”

Later, when she remembered this exchange, Jean had a moment of pure panic. How could Gretchen not have noticed her casual familiarity with the furnishings of her bedroom? Perhaps it had been a deliberate trap, into which she had positively sauntered. In matters of duplicity she was an amateur; if she was to survive the forthcoming encounter without giving herself away, she would need to remain watchful.

The missing pane of stained glass from the front door of Luna Street was still unrepaired and had in fact been joined by a fresh breakage, also covered in plywood. In the shared hallway were a bicycle, a twin stroller and an umbrella left open to dry. Coats ballooned from the rack of hooks, almost occluding the passage. Jean decided to keep hers on as she fought her way past. It looked as though the weight of one more would bring the whole thing off the wall. It was, in any case, bitterly cold.

Gretchen was waiting for her in the doorway of the apartment, dressed in woolen trousers, thick socks, jersey and a whiskery, handwoven tabard resembling a pair of hearth rugs stitched together at the shoulders. Her once-lustrous hair was greasy and there were dark semicircles under her eyes. If this was emancipation, she didn’t look well on it.

They embraced clumsily across the quilted bedspread that Jean was carrying rolled and trussed up with string. Any awkwardness was forgotten in the warmth of Gretchen’s welcome.

“Come in, come in,” she urged. “I’m so pleased to see you. I’ve made spitzbuben. Do you remember them?”

“Of course,” Jean laughed. “It wasn’t that long ago.”

“It feels like it,” said Gretchen, her face falling. She cheered up on being reunited with her quilt, which she untied carefully, saving the string in a neat skein. “Thank you for bringing it. It’s icy in here. We can wrap it round us on the couch.”

The studio had not changed much under Gretchen’s stewardship. It was still dominated by easel, canvases, sketchpads, oils, rags, jars and various scavenged items that might find their way into one of Martha’s paintings. In one corner beside the couch and coffee table—the living area—was a small bundle of Margaret’s belongings—the limits of her territory, Jean thought with indignation.

“You look very schick,” Gretchen said as Jean dared to take off her coat.

Underneath she was wearing the navy shift dress as a gesture of friendship, with a matching cardigan and a red silk scarf round her neck. The same could not be said for Gretchen without doing violence to sincerity, so instead Jean pointed at the tabard and said, “That’s interesting. Did you make it?”

“Oh no, it’s one of Martha’s. She had a loom once, until she had to sell it. She wears it to paint, because it leaves your arms free. It’s lovely and warm, even though it is a horror to look at, so I’ve borrowed it. I left so many of my own things at home.”