The door opened with a creak, revealing a long but narrow room that tapered at the far end. A double-sash window that filled the end wall allowed in the soft afternoon light. It was grey outside and fast growing dark, but there was no gloom here as the housekeeper flicked a toggle on the wall and lamps were instantly, magically lit.

The walls were a pale green and there was a brightly coloured rug on the flagged floor beside the single wooden bedstead. Effie had never seen so many colours woven together in such an intricate pattern before – so unlike the muted vegetable-dyed tweeds she knew – and she walked over to it with a look of wonder. It was decorous and pretty and utterly curious; in her world, things had only ever been functional.

The bed, alongside the left wall, was made with white linens and covered with a cream blanket that had ‘DH’ woven in brick-red bold type across the middle. Opposite were a table and chair. A slim sheaf of paper was piled neatly on top, with a curious turned pole on the corner edge.

Effie reached an enquiring hand to it, before looking back at the housekeeper with a quizzical expression.

‘A hatstand,’ Mrs McKenzie replied after a moment, as she understood that Effie was at a loss. Her gaze pointedly moved to Effie’s bare head, her long pale hair loosely held back with a broken piece of bootstring.

Effie turned away, still absorbing the pretty room. She had never had a room of her own before, not a proper one – only ever the byre, then the closet with no windows, then for one week, the shared one with her father with the sheet hanging down the middle. She saw, in the embrace of the window nook, a wash-stand with a blue and yellow floral painted jug, some rails with towels draped on them. And something else . . . She squinted quizzically, before walking over. The thing was oval and set upon the wall; it had a small shelf below, but above it—

Oh!

She stepped back in surprise as a face suddenly appeared on the other side. The other girl looked surprised and stepped back too. There was a moment’s silence as they stared at one another and it occurred to Effie that this was a peculiar place to set a window.

A couple of moments passed before she realized the girl appeared to be copying her—

‘It’s a mirror, Miss Gillies,’ Mrs McKenzie said into the silence as Effie moved her head, first one way and then the other. ‘You’ve surely . . . seen yourself before?’

A mirror? She had read about them in books, naturally, but there had been no need for people to look at themselves back home. Vanity was a sin, the minister always told them at Sunday service.