Haven’t breathed to Glurbia that I’d read of the women with brown legs. So she thought it was an original idea on my part—“original sin.” But if I reminded anyone of the existence of those books they’d be removed from the book-room.

At least, whenever I can, I sneak away to this window-niche at the end of the Passage.

And here, where the sun pours in past the mountains, I remove my clothes. I am now a beautiful creamy colour. Surfaces like my shins are a crisp gold like well-done fry. Places with a little almost-fold like where my breasts meet my armpits, or my tummy meets my groin, are pale gold. Veins still show blue though. From here, I can just hear the sound of their voices as they call, “Cija! Cija!” If they want me for some very annoying task, or if I am in a very daring mood, I just sit quiet and don’t answer them.

They never search for me here.

I don’t think they ever even knew of the entrance to the Passage behind the old wall-hangings.

They are very stupid.

The daily quarrel is over for today (unless it’s a more-than-one-quarrel-day).

I had been here and ignored their squeals, “Cija, Cija, Cija,” etc., etc., etc.

Then at meal-time, “Cija,” said Glurbia, “where have you been?”

“Oh, nowhere.”

“You are defiant and impudent,” said Snedde. “Lately, Ci-ja, you seem to be forgetting all the care and affection with which we have laboured to make you into a lovely and well-bred girl.”

Not because I was stricken by remorse at the stark truth of Snedde’s words but because it is rather a shame to upset the old imbecile, I quickly kissed her cheek. Snedde’s moustache prickles. I withdrew myself from Snedde’s answering embrace, trying wearily to stifle the distaste I know I am wicked and ungrateful to feel.

“Here is your bread,” Rorla said, handing over a plate.

I took the plate, not even mentioning the charming cracks across it in which mould is growing. If I had mentioned it Rorla would be in for it from Glurbia for giving me the plate, because Rorla cracked it and is supposed to use it until the supplies come, including extra plates. I hope they come soon.

So then I asked as carelessly as possible, “When is my mother’s next visit?”

“Your mother is coming tomorrow, so the floors must be polished.”

“Again?”

“I don’t like your tone,” Glurbia said, using her cold voice.

“I wouldn’t mind so much if the floors were dirty,” I said reasonably. “But they are no less clean now than they will be when we’ve polished them.”