When I drew back the drapes, she finally came to. ‘Frances! You got my letter? Is it truly you?’

‘Are you ill?’

She hesitated. ‘Only tired.’

‘I came to see how you fare. If you’re well, I’ll leave.’

‘Are we not friends any more?’

‘You turned me out.’

‘Oh, I have wished for you to come back.’ She drew herself up against the headboard, rubbed at her mouth. Her hair was knotted like the veins on an old woman’s legs. I had to stop myself reaching for the brush. Perhaps the smell was coming from her. She looked fevered, unwashed. She drew the sheet to her chin. ‘You are so changed.’

I curled my hands. You are not.

I emptied her pot into the night-soil bin, rinsed it outside. The kitchen was empty but there was a loaf set on the counter, warm as a new babe. I took down the breadknife and cut a slice, fetched some cheese from the cold larder, cut an apple in half. I found some cold tongue under a towel and I cut a slice of that as well, set it on a plate with the bread and cheese and some green olives.

Pru came in out of the scullery, carrying a clutch of Madame’s evening dresses, and took such a fright on seeing me that she dropped them. But her smile ran out quick as a flag up a pole. ‘Frances! You came. I knew you would.’

‘What’s all this?’ I pointed upstairs.

‘Told you. Another of her spells. This time, Mr Benham says she mustn’t be disturbed. Not even to clean.’

Benham had been the one to open the door, which had jangled me. I know things about you, I thought, on coming face to face with him again. I’d gone there armed with my new knowledge, ready to use it if I had to, force him to let me in, but when Linux came up, dusting her hands on her apron, he’d told her sternly that I was to be allowed to stay. Her face shuttered, and she scuttled back downstairs. He blinked at me.

‘I’m here to see Madame,’ I said, lifting my chin.

He shook his head. ‘You will find her changed.’

She vomited as soon as I unwrapped the food, though I couldn’t say I blamed her. I held the pot under her chin until she finished. She slumped her head over it, tapped her thumbs, made it ring like tin.

‘This is not the drug,’ she blurted, wiping at her lips. ‘I am weaning myself.’

‘Oh.’ I thought back to my nights on the streets, and with Sal. ‘You’ll need water.’

‘I’ll need brandy.’ She gave a weak laugh.

Her face went dark, and her eyes too, and she turned them to me. She let the sheet fall. ‘Oh, Frances, darling Frances,’ she whispered. ‘Something terrible.’

I turned away.

If she needs me, I cannot stay away. That’s what I’d told Sal, and she’d got up and walked out without another word, not even to say goodbye.