‘Shit. Shit!’ She ran to the sink, but couldn’t get the tap to turn, struggling to grip it hard enough with her protesting fingers, and then finally the tap was turning, the water spilling into the ink-stained sink. Edie grabbed for a pint glass and immediately dropped it into the Belfast where it shattered amid the wasting water. Panic set in, the flames behind her crackling now, roaring, and soon they’d reach her store of inks and solvents and then—

The door that led in from the garden banged open.

‘Move!’

It took until the figure was barging past her for Edie to realize that it was the homeless girl. Gilly grabbed a towel from the rag rack and soaked it, then threw it over the flames, using hands that were buried away in the multitudinous folds of Ezra’s jacket to beat at them over and over. She thumped and thumped at the conflagration as Edie pressed herself back against the draining board, dazed, shocked, frozen to the spot.

When it was over, silence settled inside the print room like snow, cold and deadening. The whole incident must have taken less than three minutes. Edie stared at the dishevelled figure that had invaded her space. Gilly was wreathed in pungent, rising smoke, which was added to as she began to blow out the rest of the candles.

‘Fire and paper,’ the girl muttered, in an incredulous tone. ‘And most of these aren’t even in holders!’

The words prompted Edie into action and she began to blow out flames, too. She supposed there would be no more work done tonight. Her mind felt sluggish with shock, her stiff hands were trembling.

When they were done, the room was dark at the edges, the only light from the lamp on Edie’s workbench. It shone down on her wooden block, drawing the gazes of both women.

‘What is it?’ Gilly asked, as if this were the most obvious question to ask at this particular moment. ‘What are you doing?’

For a moment Edie said nothing. Then she rubbed one forearm with the hand that ached less, as if she could massage away the throbbing, spreading pain. It always got worse at night.

‘It’s an engraving,’ she said eventually.

‘What’s it for?’

She examined the girl for malice or mockery, and found none. Gilly had stuck her hands into the pockets of Ezra’s ridiculously large jacket. On her it looked like a tent.

‘Well, when I’ve finished carving the image on the surface of the wood, I’ll ink it, then press paper over it to print it. I’ll end up with an image on the paper. Like that one, there.’

She pointed to one wall, where one of her larger-scale images of the lighthouse hung. Gilly turned to look, and then moved to examine it more closely. She pressed her nose almost to the glass frame and seemed to be tracing each fine line, each tiny cut.

‘You did this?’

‘Yes.’

‘You carved this into wood?’