Juliet, at twenty-three the oldest of the five Faraday sisters, was first into the kitchen, cooking breakfast for everyone as she liked to do. This morning it was scrambled eggs, served with small triangles of buttered toast. She added parsley, diced crispy bacon and a dash of cream to the eggs, with a sprinkle of paprika as a garnish. She also set the table with silver cutlery, white napkins, a small crystal vase with a late-blooming red rose from the bush by the front gate and a damp copy of the Mercury, which had been thrown over the fence before dawn. The big earthenware teapot that had once belonged to their grandmother had centre place on the table, resting on a Huon pine pot holder that sent out a warm timber smell as it heated up.

Juliet stepped back from the table, pleased with the general effect. She’d been asked by her new boss at the city-centre café where she worked to come up with ideas for menu items. She made a record of this morning’s arrangement in her notebook under the title ‘English-style Traditional Breakfast???’ A smoked kipper or two would have been a nice touch, but they were hard to come by in Hobart. Too smelly, anyway, if her childhood memory served her well.

Twenty-one-year-old Miranda was next up and into the kitchen. She was already fully made-up – black eyeliner, false lashes and very red lipstick – and dressed in her white pharmacy assistant’s uniform. She looked around the room.

‘Juliet, you really are wasted with us. You’d make some lucky familya lovely maid.’

She absentmindedly pulled in her belt as she spoke. Two months earlier, a visiting perfume sales representative had flattered her by mentioning her slender waist. She’d been working vigorously to get it as thin as possible ever since. She worked in the local chemist, publicly expressing an interest in studying pharmacy, privately thrilled with the access to discount and sample cosmetics.

Juliet was also dressed for work, in a black skirt and white shirt, with a red dressing-gown on top for warmth. She ignored Miranda’s remark. ‘English-style traditional breakfast, madam?’ she asked.

‘I’d rather skin a cat,’ Miranda answered, reaching for the newspaper.

Eliza, sister number three and nineteen years old, came in next, dressed in running gear. She did a four-kilometre run every morning before she went to university. ‘That’s not how you use that phrase, is it?’

‘It is now. I’d rather skin a cat within an inch of my hen’s teeth than put my eggs in Juliet’s basket.’

Juliet looked pointedly at Eliza. ‘Would you like an English-style traditional breakfast, madam? Toast? Coffee or tea?’