“It is a small world at that, i’n’it?” Gemma hoped that would end the conversation, and she jumped quickly to a new one. “Would either of you object to me making breakfast for everyone? I suspect you ain’t eaten yet, and gabbing with me is keeping you from doing so.”

Though he narrowed his eyes on her for a moment, Brogan didn’t push the matter. “That’d be kind of you.”

Gemma slipped from the room and found the small kitchen. It was little more than a worktable, some shelves, and a fire. It was enough.

She pulled from the larder a few things and began piecing together a simple meal. Under other circumstances, she’d’ve been overjoyed to cross paths with Vera Sorokina again. Losing touch with her one friend had been a sorrowful thing.

But she’d have to make this reunion brief. She wouldn’t impose on this household longer than she had to, and she’d leave them better than she’d found them. It was a life approach she’d embraced only after leaving her father’s home. He certainly hadn’t believed in that philosophy.

She had nearly finished preparing a humble soup while wandering through her own thoughts when Móirín stepped into the room.

“I’ve just had m’brother and m’sister-in-law spill a great many things into my ears,” she said. “You’re in need of a job, you know Vera from your years in South London, and you strong-armed m’brother into letting you make breakfast.”

“Oi. That’s the front and back of it.” Gemma stirred the pot hanging over the fire.

“Well then, I’ll begin with the easiest questions and make my way through the harder ones.” She pulled over a chair, sat on it with her arms crossed, and began an interrogation Gemma knew was both serious and inescapable. “What are you making?”

“Cabbage soup.”

Móirín nodded in approval. “Is there any type of work you’d prefer, or any area of town you’re looking at?”

“Any work I can walk to from Baz’s house without spending my entire day on the walking, and any job that’ll earn me coins enough for finding a place of my own when the time comes.”

“How long have you known Vera?” Móirín asked.

“We met when we were six or seven years old. We’ve had some semblance of a friendship since.”

“But you didn’t know she married my brother?”

“She had no idea I was married; I didn’t know she were. I hadn’t even heard about the fire, in fact,” she said. Then something occurred to her. “Was her father caught in it?”