I’ll stay if you want, he offers quietly. If it makes you feel safer. If this bastard Deon or whoever shows up, I can take care of him.

I know you can, I say. But honestly, you don’t need to. This house is built like a fortress. Besides, one step at a time, yes?

Okay, he says. He leans forward and kisses me, a little formally, on the cheek. Then he gives me a hug. The hug is nice.

When he’s gone the house is silent again. I’ve promised him I’ll eat something. I fill up a pan with water to boil an egg and wave my hand over the stove.

Nothing happens.

I wave again. Same result. I look under the counter to see if there’s some kind of override for the motion sensor. But there isn’t.

Simon would know how to fix it and I almost reach for my phone to call him back. Then I stop myself. Being a frail female who depended on men to sort her problems out was partly what got me into this mess.

There are a couple of apples in the fridge so I get one of those instead. I’m just biting into it when I smell gas. Even though the stove didn’t light, the part that makes the gas come out is clearly working and now it’s gushing its explosive fumes into the house. I look for a way to turn it off, waving my arms frantically over the counter. Suddenly there’s a click and a ball of flame shoots into the air, blue and yellow, engulfing my arm. I drop the apple. There’s a moment of shock—no pain yet, but I know that will come. Quickly I push my arm under the cold tap. It doesn’t come on. I run upstairs to the bathroom. There, thank goodness, the water does work, cold on my burning skin. I let it run for a few minutes, then examine my arm. It’s sore and red but the skin hasn’t blistered.

This is not my imagination. It can’t be. It’s like the house didn’t want Simon to come around for our talk and this is its way of punishing me.

It’s a fortress, I’d said to Simon. But what if the house itself decides not to protect me? How safe am I really?

Suddenly I’m scared.

I go into the cleaner’s cupboard and shut the door behind me. I could barricade myself in here if need be—the mops and brooms could be wedged against the door to keep it shut; from the outside, you wouldn’t even know I was here. It’s cramped, cluttered with tins and equipment, but I need a safe place and this is going to be it.

12. In a well-run society, there have to be consequences for those who break the rules.

Agree ? ? ? ? ? Disagree

NOW: JANE

I’m lying in bed, half asleep, when I feel it. As tentative and hesitant as a tap on the door; barely more than a flutter in my belly. I recognize it from Isabel. The quickening. Such a beautiful, biblical term.

I lie there, enjoying it, waiting for more kicks. A few come, then a tumbling movement that might or might not be a somersault. Maternal love and wonder wash over me, so much so that I start to cry. How could I ever have considered aborting this child? Looking back, it seems almost inconceivable. I smile through my tears at the pun.

Wide awake now, I swing my legs out of bed, looking down at my changing body. I’m still not at the stage where strangers make unprompted remarks—according to a chart I found at work, my baby is now roughly the size of an avocado—but, naked, you couldn’t miss that I’m pregnant. My breasts sag low and full, and my belly has taken on a comfortable roundness.

I walk toward the bathroom, amused to see I’m waddling slightly even though I surely don’t need to yet—the muscle memory of motherhood, settling around my body like a familiar coat. Something goes wrong with the shower—the warm water suddenly turns icy—but it’s invigorating. Idly, I wonder if the house is having trouble recognizing me now I have another person inside me. I don’t think technology works like that, but I really don’t know much about it.

I’m toweling myself dry when I feel a twinge of nausea. I sit down on the toilet seat, trying to breathe it away, but then it comes back, twice as bad. There’s no time to do anything but plunge forward and aim my mouth in the direction of the shower. I turn on the taps to wash the vomit away.

The glass around the shower is flecked with water marks now, so I get down on my knees to polish it. I’m crouching down to clean the notch that runs along the base of the wall, my face almost at floor level, when I see something glint in there, catching the light. It’s too far back for my fingers to reach, so I find a cotton bud and carefully prize it out.

At first I think I’ve just found a piece of grit, or perhaps a ball bearing. Then I see the tiny hole running through it. It’s a pearl; quite small, an unusual pale-cream color. It must have come off my necklace.

I go to the bedroom and find the necklace in its case. The loose pearl looks the same as all the others, certainly. But the necklace isn’t broken.

I can’t see how the pearl escaped if the string isn’t broken. It’s impossible, like a logic puzzle, a riddle.

There’s a jeweler’s opposite Still Hope’s offices. I decide to take it there and ask.

THEN: EMMA

I email the Monkford Partnership to complain about the problems with the house. There’s no reply. I try phoning Mark the agent but he tells me anything technical should be referred direct to the Monkford Partnership. I end up shouting at him over the phone, which I suspect only makes things worse. I even text Edward. Of course, he doesn’t respond.