The Red Thread by Dawn Farnham

garden where Mo grew ginger and garlic. When the wind blew in certain directions, the smell of night soil wafted from this corner. On either side of the corridor were smaller rooms. One of the rooms on the right was Robert’s bedroom, and one was a storeroom. Two others were empty but for two low cots; they sometimes served to accommodate low-ranking officials of the East India Company who might be passing through the settlement. The whole building was of brick, surrounded on three sides by a deep verandah.
    Their own washing and waste cubicles were situated at the back of the verandah. Washing consisted of a large earthenware pot of water, kept filled by Aman from the bullock carts which plied a constant trade around the town and drew the water from the reservoirs made from the springs on the riverside of Bukit Larangan. The governor’s residence stood low on the top of this hill. The porous earthenware, constantly covered by a wooden lid against mosquitoes and other pests, kept the water cool and fresh. When it rained, they used the water gathered in two large containers beside their quarters. The front verandah extended out on brick posts over the water, which at high tide lapped and gurgled under their feet. A short jetty jutted off the verandah. At the back were two large, handsome angsana trees and a pretty grove of prickly-trunked nibong palms. To the west was the fort, the river and the Chinese town and to the east, a view along the seafront and out over the harbour and the roads. It was not Miss Manouk’s magnificent residence, but Charlotte loved it just as well.
    Especially now, as the evening drew in and the sun shot pink and purple hues over the masts of the ships, across the waters of the harbour to the luxuriant hills across the bay. The estuary waters were filled with large rocks, with little rivulets running between the fissures like green snakes. The reefs and rocks made it difficult to enter the mouth of the river, and it took great skill to manoeuvre the boats to and fro.
    â€˜Kitt, I have something to tell you,’ Robert said and stopped.
    Charlotte was struggling with her chicken. The fiery sauce it had been cooked in was taking her breath away. After every small mouthful she took a spoonful of rice and a big drink of water.
    â€˜Crimoney, Robbie, do you think we could ask the cook not to make it so spicy? How do you manage it?’
    Robert was gazing into the distance. He was not as striking as herself. He had more of their father in him: his brown eyes and sandy-brown hair, which he wore long, gathered in a tail. It was not in the least fashionable, but he did not seem to notice. He was good-looking in a gentle sort of way, taller than her but not tall, compact and strong.
    He looked at the spoon that she was waggling up and down. ‘Auch, I have no control over any of that sort of thing. Perhaps you can sort it out, no?’ he trailed off.
    He was actually glad she had not heard him. He poured himself a glass of claret, and after Charlotte retired, Robert wrestled with his conscience. He did not like to keep secrets from her but really, what was he to say about Shilah? Sooner or later his sister would find out that he had been living with a woman here until the day before her arrival. The men would not talk, of course; many of them had native nyai companions. Hundreds of slave women and boys from the islands turned up at the Bugis marketplace every season. It wasn’t mentioned. In a place like this, for someone like him there had been, until recently, simply no possibility of marriage. He lacked the means to support a family. The company frowned on it, and the truth was Robert had, at present, no desire to settle down with a da Silva daughter or such like. At least not yet. Shilah was too intoxicating.
    She was the unwanted child of an Indian convict woman, dead at an early age, and a white man who had long since left the settlement. As a little girl she had been taken in