Effie watched the scene with angry eyes. Women’s work. Women working. Heads bent, hands moving in synchronicity. Light fell in from high windows, shining on their hair, which had been smoothly tied back into buns. The building was a large, converted barn and Effie could see the pale tide of the mud splatter still at the bottom of the walls from when the animals had called this their home. Bolts of tweed were carefully stacked on trestle tables, a soft, feminine version of the giant logs piled high at the forestry yard.

At the far end of the space, a group of women were standing in a cluster around a desk; they were distinctive from the women already at the looms by the red shawls on their shoulders. Effie’s eyes narrowed to points. Only yesterday those same shawls had been on the women’s heads, but now they had slipped to their shoulders? Of course, there weren’t the same ferocious winds here to harry their hair, but that they had spent less than twelve hours on these shores and the old ways were already, quite literally, slipping . . . It made her heart tremble to see how quickly her tribe was disappearing into the mainland mass, disbanded and anonymous. Even Flora? Her head was bowed, her distinctive black hair tied back. For once, she blended with the crowd.

Effie watched the women standing so obediently as they took their orders. Was she the only one who felt torn from her own life? Who felt a need to retain her sense of self? Why was no one else . . . fighting?

‘You.’

The voice startled her from her thoughts and she focused her gaze to find a small woman staring at her. The top of her head would come no higher than Effie’s shoulder but she commanded the room. ‘You’re late.’

‘Aye,’ Effie replied flatly. ‘I went to the wrong place.’

There was a pause. A sense of expectancy hung in it, like a cradled baby in a hammock.

‘. . . Then perhaps you might think to apologize for the inconvenience you’ve caused,’ the short woman said finally, looking displeased that she had had to spell it out.

‘Do I not look inconvenienced to you?’ Effie asked back, indicating her muddied leg and clawed hair. She was tired and irate. Last night’s fractured sleep was already digging its sharp fingers into her. The room felt airless.

Another silence followed her words, their impudence causing the women at the looms to fall still as the short woman walked slowly towards her, hands fastened in front of her crisp white apron like she was in a funeral procession. She stopped in front of Effie and stared up at her. The height difference between them was almost comical, but it was clear with whom the power lay.