From a practical point of view, quite apart from the agony of producing them and the permanent damage they had done to her body, her babies were nothing but an almighty annoyance. Nipple-chewing, dung-leaking, sleep-killing monsters with no conversation at all. But she was even more terrified for them than for herself.

Laughter beyond the door. Another crash, then cheery voices burbling off into silence. Just the Burners, doing what Burners do. Savine forced the panic away. Forced her clutching hand down, then turned in surprise at a great sob. Freid stood with her face screwed up, shoulders shaking.

“Whatever is it?” demanded Savine. If anyone should have been weeping, she rather thought she had the best claim. She had scarcely slept since they arrested her. It felt as if only the savagely laced corsetry was keeping her standing.

“When all this happened… the Great Change, I mean…” Freid’s bottom lip trembled, then she blurted it out. “I thought it might be a good thing! It seemed to be, for a while, freedom and all, and folk so happy, but then…” She stared into the corner, eyes brimming. “But then… by the Fates, my lady, forgive me!”

Savine’s first impulse was to slap her. She knew she would be lucky to see sunset and did not particularly want to spend the hours she had left soothing a wardrobe maid’s regrets. How she missed Zuri. She had never cried. Even when they dragged her away in a muzzle. But we must work with the tools we have, as Savine’s father had been so fond of saying. She forced down her anger and put a gentle hand on Freid’s shoulder.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said, with an effort. “Perhaps it could have been a good thing. Should have been. And I am not a lady any more. Just plain Citizeness. That is what I need people to see.”

Freid sniffed back her tears and picked up the powder. “I’ll cover up your scar—”

“No,” said Savine, looking at it in the mirror, running pink and crooked up her forehead and into her clipped hair. “Get the blusher. Bring it out a little. Let them see that I know what pain is. We never met Savine dan Glokta, terror of the salons, you understand? Have them put the Darling of the Slums on trial.”

“So?” asked Metello, holding up one of her nursing dresses, plain white.

“Perfect.”

A clonking knock on the door brought another surge of sick terror.

“It’s Gunnar Broad,” came the rough voice from outside.

“Should I tell him you’re dressing?” whispered Freid.

Savine pressed on her stomach again. Smothered the fear, again. One advantage of facing your death was that modesty did not seem so heavy a consideration. She raised her voice so it could be well understood beyond the door. “Gunnar Broad saved my life in Valbeck after I was chased half-naked by a mob, Freid. I doubt the sight of my petticoat will scandalise him. And he’s got the key, after all!”