She had to detach her tongue from her parched palate so she could speak; she still hoped that all of this was a dream she would soon wake from.

‘No,’ she said, because that word should still hold some power. She repeated it. ‘No.’

But Mama’s grip was strong, not the grip of a frail woman but of an ancient kraken risen from the deep. Her voice was an impatient howl.

‘Stop being silly, sweetie! Your parents said this would be, so it shall be. Lie down on the bed!’

Emese never understood what terror was until that moment. Her legs were shaking. She looked at her mother: surely she would not put her through the same thing that rural children endure. After all they were from the city, just tourists visiting, beneficiaries and not slaves of the countryside.

‘It will be all right,’ Andrea said. ‘Your father will be very happy with you.’

Emese wanted to scream, but she remained silent. She knew she should have rebelled, rebelled against everything a lot sooner. Anger rose in her because she didn’t have the switchblade with her despite her promise to keep it on her at all times. She was again defenseless, like she always had been.

‘She’d better take off her clothes,’ Mama said.

Emese shook her head.

‘I’m not undressing,’ she said, then repeated, ‘No.’

‘It will get nasty,’ Mama said with the anger of a woman who has never understood the world apart from her own little slice of it. ‘Do you want your mother to keep washing your clothes for the rest of your life? You could do just this one little thing for your parents. They gave you life, you owe it to them not to burden them with any more filth.’

‘Let her keep them on,’ Andrea requested feebly, her own voice shaky; not a mother’s voice, but a child’s. ‘I’ll wash them later.’

But eventually Emese took everything off.

Mama smeared a thick layer of the snail oil onto Andrea’s hand and arm, all the way up to her elbow. Andrea felt as if wasps were walking on her arm, hundreds and hundreds of tiny legs.

‘You have to be quick,’ Mama said. ‘Don’t fool around, just reach in and take it out. If you wait or hesitate, it will only be worse, both for her and for you.’

Andrea gulped.

‘How do I know . . .’ Andrea fell silent when she heard the handcuffs click on her daughter’s wrists. ‘. . . when I’ve found it?’

‘If you don’t know, then this is not your daughter,’ Mama said. ‘You are ready. Go ahead.’