As Esther retreated back to the stove, she heard the clinking of forks and knives on china. She placed the apple crumble into the oven and set about making the custard.

Their plates were bare when she lifted them away. She placed a bowl of steaming hot apple crumble in front of each of them and poured custard from a chipped jug. The smell, thick and eggy and sweet, made her stomach grumble.

“Oh, now,” Thomas said, examining his bowl. “Now, now, now.”

She left them to eat, listening to their contented huffing and chewing. Some might have thought them ignorant, unmannered, but she felt a warm satisfaction at their pleasure.

When they’d finished, as she washed the dishes, and Ivan finally lit his pipe, she heard them talk in low voices. What do you think? Will she do? Aye, she can cook all right, and she’ll learn better. And she’s biddable. Aye, she’ll do all right.

The dishes dried and put away, her calves aching, Esther could focus her mind on only two things: the leftover food, and a warm bed. She cleared her throat to get the men’s attention. Thomas looked irritated at her interruption, but Ivan said, “Yes, love?”

“I wondered,” she said, “where will I be sleeping?”

Ivan looked to Thomas, who got to his feet. He walked to the door with the lock and searched his trouser pocket until he retrieved a set of jangling keys. He undid the padlock and beckoned her over. Even though she didn’t want to, even though she again wanted to flee this house, she did as she was told. He held open the door. She saw the dimness inside and took a step back. He took her arm, guided her to the top step.

She looked down into the weak lamplight.

She saw the young women and the girl looking back.

“Who are they?” she asked.

Thomas gave her a nudge and said, “It’s all right, go on down, they’ll look after you.”

Alarm clamoured inside her like a firehouse bell. “Who are they?” she asked again. “What’s going on?”

“Just go on down,” Thomas said, and he gave her another push, harder than the last.

She tripped down three or four steps before she could stop herself, her hand grabbing the crude handrail made of raw wood, splinters biting into her palm. Ignoring the fiery sting, she turned and looked back up to him.

“I want to go,” she said. “Take me back to Belfast.”

“Whisht, now,” Thomas said, “don’t be thran, just get down them stairs. The girls’ll look after you.”

Fear threatened to steal the words from her tongue, the reason from her mind. She held it back, though it pressed hard on her.

“You don’t have to take me,” she said, “I’ll get a bus.”