I sat back on my haunches. My head spun. Remembering the bluster I’d felt, thinking I could just walk out and fend for myself. The echo of her shouts. ‘We remember it differently,’ I said.

She shook her own head, her back quivering under the washcloth. ‘All that time . . .’

‘I found your letters, you know. I found them that afternoon.’

‘Letters?’

‘From him.’ His name sticks in my throat. I can’t say it. ‘You kept them. In your egg-chest. It’s the only reason I wrote what I did for Mr Benham. I shouldn’t have. I should have torn it up. I would not have given it to him.’

She fell quiet, drew her knees close, and spoke her next words to the water. ‘Those were letters between friends. I admired him, yes. But as a friend. How can I explain it? He made something so extraordinary of himself ‒’

I snorted. ‘A man. I know, I know. He made a man of himself. Because he is a man. And free to make of himself whatever he wants.’

‘But – Fran ‒ you know that is not quite true. He was only a child when Mr Benham brought him here. Then he was like a son to me. My greatest shame is not that I proved them right, but that I proved myself wrong. You will not forgive me. He will not forgive me either. When I went to see him, it was as if there was something in him that wanted to wound me . . .’

That was all she gave by way of explanation. It was not enough, but I can never hope for more. Loneliness drove her to him. Loneliness drove her always. She hadn’t known what to do. She’d called for me. Even in her sleep, she called for me. I was the only true friend she had. Finally, it had been Laddie himself who’d told her what he’d heard on the streets about Ebony Fran, and where to find me.

Sending for me was not friendship, I thought.

She said no more, only sat forward, her back curved as a blade. A blade that should have finished me there and then, had it been merciful.

Look at you, said my own voice, close at my ear. Look where you are. Back on your knees.

I pushed away, to my feet. Water splashing. I was picturing it. The rotted-fruit smell of Laddie’s rooms. The baby, curled in the dark like a wet fist. ‘First thing a baby do is wring you inside out,’ Phibbah used to say. ‘Then it spend the rest of its life wringing you outside in.’ I set down the cloth, left her to dry herself.

Looking at her put a sour taste in my mouth. When she stood at the mirror, one hand curved careless, nails ragged and torn, looking at herself and worrying, I turned away. It was she who told me to tell Linux that now I was there she was not to be disturbed. That I would tend her, bring up her trays. She wrung her hands and kept her eyes fixed on the door, as if she thought we were being watched. But Benham never showed his face, the rest of that afternoon. He stayed in his library. Deep in his work, Linux said. ‘He’s almost there. Pulling the real meat out of his raw material. And you choose this time to bring your disturbance to his door.’