I give a clipped smile as my excitement changes into something vaguely sickening. These are the names they call her, behind her back. The Dark Lady. ‘Rosy’. I’ve heard them before – everyone has – and we all understand the implied insults, too. What an affront, to be a woman. To be that type of woman. I chose to use her reference for a good reason.

He leans across the desk with a reassuring expression, like you would give to a child.

‘Well, let’s see what you’re made of, eh?’

I think he might be about to pat my hand, so before he can I snatch it away and push my chair further back from the desk. It scrapes, nail-like, along the floor. I can hear the screech even now.

I meet his gaze.

‘Thank you,’ I say, standing up, keeping my back rigid and my expression professional. I want to get away from this man, who makes me feel small even as he gives me what I came here for. But if I am to work here, I know that I must be able to work with him.

He stands too. Towers over me. Holds out his hand, expecting me to shake it. I haven’t accepted his job offer, though he assumes that I have.

I am hesitating.

The world spins. The bookshelves grow until they meet in an oppressive arc over my head. I’m trapped in a labyrinth of dark wood and pristine white, of labs and stone and chemicals, and I know, with my arm half raised to take his hand, that my decision in that instant will be the decision that makes the difference. But the flagstones are turning to sharp black rocks that glisten in the sun and my fingernails are aching in the cold. Way out to sea, far beyond the rocks and the whites of the waves, I can see dense storm clouds gathering. I am an old woman again and I start to make my way home, thinking about the indigo hamlets.

I wish I’d told you more about them when you were young. You would have listened then – remember how you used to listen to me, as though my ideas could change the world?