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tripping. ‘Aunt Augustine?’
    The woman examined me from the part of my hair to my feet and seemed to come to a displeasing conclusion. ‘Yes, I am your Great-Aunt Augustine,’ she said, folding her meaty arms over her bosom. ‘Wipe your boots before you come in.’
    I followed her through the parlour, which contained a worn rug, two chairs and a dusty piano, to the dining room. A table, a glass cupboard and a sideboard were crammed into the space. Paintings of seafaring adventures clashed with the striped wallpaper. The only natural light came from the adjoining kitchen’s window. There was a fringed lampshade dangling over the table and I expected Aunt Augustine to turn the light on for us. But she didn’t and we sat down at the table in the gloom.
    ‘Tea?’ she offered, pointing to the pot and the mismatched cups next to it.
    ‘Yes, please.’
    My throat was parched and my taste buds sprang to life at the thought of a soothing tisane. I could almost taste silky chamomile gliding over my throat or the refreshing snap of rosemary against my tongue.
    Aunt Augustine grabbed the pot handle with her gnarled fingers and poured. ‘Here,’ she said, pushing a cup and saucer towards me. I eyed the dark liquid. It had no aroma and when I sipped it I found that it was cold and tasted like stale water. It must have been left over from the morning or even earlier. I drank the tea because I was thirsty, but tears pricked my eyes. Couldn’t Aunt Augustine even make me a fresh pot for me? Part of me had dared to hope that she might be more like my father and less like Uncle Gerome.
    Aunt Augustine sank back in her chair and tugged at a hair on her chin. I squared my shoulders and sat up straight, determined to give her another try. Surely sheunderstood that we were both Fleuriers, each other’s flesh and blood. But before I could open my mouth, she announced, ‘Three meals a day. And watch what you eat, you’re not a guest.’
    She pointed to a piece of paper nailed to the doorframe. ‘The others leave their names on that to let you know if they will be in for their meals. Monsieur Roulin is always in, and that one upstairs is never in. But I wouldn’t have such a person to the table anyway.’
    ‘That one?’ I asked.
    Aunt Augustine rolled her eyes to the ceiling and I followed her gaze. But whereas I saw only cobwebs, the scowl on her face gave me the impression she was referring to something evil. The ominous ring of ‘that one’ lingered in the air.
    ‘Now,’ said Aunt Augustine, snatching my empty cup away and placing it upturned on its saucer, ‘I’ll show you to your room. I want you up at five o’clock tomorrow to go to the fish markets.’
    I hadn’t eaten anything since my sausage on the train, but I was too afraid to say that I was hungry.
    My room was at the back of the house and directly off the kitchen. The door was warped, and when I pushed it open the trim scraped the floor. I could see by the semicircular scratch on the boards that this was its usual pattern of movement. My heart sank at the sight of the cement walls. The only furniture was a rickety-looking chair in the corner, an armoire and a bed, the cover of which was spotted with mildew. Through the grime on the barred window I could make out a lavatory shed and a herb garden in need of weeding.
    ‘I’ll be back in an hour to explain your duties,’ said Aunt Augustine, closing the door behind her. She was not like a relative at all. She was nothing more than an employer.
    On the back of the door was a list of chores. The paper it was scribbled on had turned yellow with age. Clean tiles with linseed oil and beeswax. Beat bed linen. Mop floor… I wondered how long it had been since anyone had donethose things or a maid had occupied this dingy room. I lowered myself into the chair and stared out the window, tears rolling down my cheeks when I compared the warmth of my father to the coldness of my great-aunt. I glanced at the sagging