I lifted the laundry and looked from left to right for a place to dump it. Maren made no suggestions but settled into the armchair opposite and offered me a drink. I said yes without asking what it was. Finally I placed the laundry on the bed beside the other items that had clearly also been dumped there – a bag of wool and knitting needles, a mirror, and a box of Christmas decorations – and sat down.

‘Smoke?’ Maren said, a fresh fag bouncing between her lips. I shook my head nervously.

‘Mead,’ she said, when I tried the drink she’d poured. ‘Dates back to Viking times.’

I coughed and set the drink down. I wanted this all to be over and done with. Just say you know I’m not Sophie. But she merely sucked on her fag and smiled, enjoying my torment. ‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ I started to say. ‘Honestly, I didn’t go in the basement to snoop …’

She waved my comment away. ‘When the work day is over, I prefer not to think about any of it.’ Suspicion was still dancing in her eyes, though. I looked away and wrung my hands beneath the table. She pulled the stopper out of the crystal bottle and topped up my glass. ‘To help you sleep,’ she said. ‘Even if you don’t like the taste it’ll make you sleep like a baby.’

I didn’t argue, though it crossed my mind that perhaps there was something more than alcohol in that bottle. I waited until she poured her own glass.

‘Skål,’ she said. I raised my drink with a trembling hand and we toasted.

‘So,’ she said, tapping her fag into the ashtray on the table, and I braced myself for what was to come. How does it feel, preying on the trust of orphans?

‘How are things?’ she said. A gentle opener before the inevitable quartering.

‘Things are great,’ I said, much too cheerfully in a bid to steer the mood. I had this mad notion that perhaps I could distract her from her purpose. ‘Um … we’re working on Gaia’s phonic blends and high frequency words. And next week we’re starting our mini-beasts project …’

Maren tilted her head. ‘I don’t mean the schooling. How are things with you?’

I lowered my eyes. ‘I feel … terrible, actually …’

‘Terrible?’ she said. ‘Oh, this is my fault.’

I opened my mouth to respond but found I couldn’t.

‘You haven’t had a chance to see Norway. Next time you have a day off you must travel. You drive, don’t you?’

‘Um …’

‘I’ll let you use my car. You can reach Ålesund in ninety minutes. Spend the day sightseeing. Lots to see. I’ll write down some places.’

I muttered a ‘thank you’ and wrung my hands. What was going on? Did she know I was a liar, an imposter? Was she going to hand me over to the police?