“Make sure you mention who was your mentor,” he interjected at one point. “Don’t try to protect anyone. How did you meet the other members of your conspiracy? Whose flat did you meet in? Be sure you include all these informations.”

And she kept spinning, like Scheherazade, telling stories to save herself. Who she’d talked to. Who had coerced her. All those picnics, late-night sing-alongs, everything could be made to take on a darker significance. Any roomful of people could count as a conspiracy, if you imputed the right motives to them. A gift of a book became an act of subversion. She had a bookmark with a Bible verse: The righteous considereth the cause of the poor. Now she could see that it was a coded call to arms.

When she had finished, her hand felt stiff, curled into a claw. She tapped the papers to align them into a neat pile, and wished she had a stapler to fix them together. Her handwriting had always been good, teacherly—small, neat, just enough flourishes to be elegant. She waited docilely for her examiner to take away her answer script. She had done her best now, and could only hope to pass.

Cheng Mun’s eyes were approving. “Do you want to read through it?” She shook her head, and his smile deepened. The right answer. “Good, we don’t want you to have second thoughts. You mustn’t doubt yourself, Stella. You’re doing the right thing now. I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.”

As he escorted her back to her cell, he said, “Doesn’t it feel better, to finally tell us the truth?” and she felt a spasm, right across her chest, but managed to hold herself upright and not fold into tears until she was alone.

A few days later, they told her she was wanted for an interview. “You’re going to be a TV star, Stella,” sneered Devin. “They want to film your confession.”

“Who does?” she asked, stupefied.

“SBC, who else? How many TV stations are there?”

“What for? Isn’t it enough that I’ve signed a written statement?”

“So many questions. Haven’t you learned to shut up and do what you’re told? Quick, put this on.” He flung a pale yellow dress at her. It was one of the ones from her suitcase—from that holiday in London, how long ago was that now? He stood there as if he wanted to watch her change, just long enough for her to grow pale, then stepped outside the door with a nasty laugh. She climbed into the dress quickly. It was too big for her. How much weight had she lost? It was a little grubby and wrinkled, but she didn’t think of asking for an iron.