‘Are you all right, Joyce?’ came a voice behind her now, subdued and kindly. It was Mr Mayhood, calling to her from his desk. ‘You’ve been staring at your board there for a good few minutes. Is your pencil broken?’

‘No, I just – my stomach is a bit upset,’ she said. ‘I’ll be OK.’

‘Hope I didn’t undercook those eggs this morning.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Mr Mayhood wandered over. ‘If you’re not feeling well, perhaps you’d better go and lie down for a bit.’

‘I need to get these drawings done for you.’

‘Well, speaking as your client, I reckon they can wait a day or two.’

‘I’ll be all right,’ she said, but when she moved her arm up to the board, it shook again.

‘You’re shivering,’ he said. ‘You must’ve caught a bug.’

Florence was approaching now, her face creased with concern. ‘You do look pale. I’ll make some honey lemon. Nice and warming – soothes the stomach, too. Go over by the fire and put your feet up.’

‘Look, if neither of you mind,’ she said, ‘I might just go up to my room.’

‘Please,’ said Mr Mayhood. ‘Rest.’

As she stood up, blinking, sighing, putting on the poorly act, she noticed that her brother hadn’t moved from his position at the draughting board. He was peering over his shoulder with his mouth all pursed and cornered, as if sucking on a mint. But as soon as their eyes met, he turned away, picked up a set square from the tabletop and carried on his drawing.

‘I’ll bring you up that honey lemon,’ Florence said.

‘Thanks, miss. Kind of you.’ She went upstairs and kicked her shoes off, put a second jumper on, although she wasn’t cold. For appearances, she scruffed the counterpane and pressed a head-sized dint into her pillow. There was no chance she could keep this up for ever. Once or twice play-acting illness was a good solution, but any more than that and it became suspicious.

After a short while, there was a knock. ‘May I come in?’

‘It’s open.’

Florence had a cup and saucer in her hand. She stepped in, timidly. ‘Make sure to let it cool a bit before you drink it, eh? Don’t want you burned as well as sick. I’ll leave it here.’ But once she’d placed it on the ottoman, she hovered at the window. Arms crossed, with her pretty freckled head sloped to the side. ‘Listen, if you’ve got your monthly, I can bring you a hot-water bottle.’

‘It’s not that. I’m just a bit under the weather. Don’t know why.’

‘Well, I should probably take your temperature, then.’

‘No, I’ll be fine.’

‘What about more blankets?’

‘No, miss. This is too much fuss already.’

‘You’re right. It’s peace and quiet you’ll be needing.’ This caring manner Florence had was sweet but inconvenient. It wasn’t mothering, though it was something similar. ‘Keep warm. We’ll see you later on – for lunch maybe?’

‘I think so, yeah.’