The Luminaries

without first asking me whether I—? How could they? Where’s the—’
    ‘—Proof?’
    Gascoigne studied her with pity. Anna’s recent brush with death showed plainly in her face and body. Her complexion was waxy, her hair limp and heavy with grease. She was snatching compulsively at the sleeves of her dress with her fingers; as the clerk appraised her, she gave a shiver that racked her body like a wave.
    ‘The gaoler fears that you are insane,’ he said.
    ‘I have never spoken one word to Gov. Shepard in all my months in Hokitika,’ said Anna. ‘We are perfect strangers.’
    ‘He mentioned that you had recently lost a child.’
    ‘
Lost
!’ said Anna, in a voice full of disgust. ‘
Lost
! That’s a sanitary word.’
    ‘You would use a different one?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Your child was taken from you?’
    A hard look came across Anna’s face. ‘Kicked from my womb,’ she said. ‘And by—by the child’s own father! But I suppose Gov. Shepard didn’t tell you that.’
    Gascoigne was silent. He had not yet finished his cigarette, but he dropped it, crushed the ember with the heel of his shoe, and lit another. Anna sat down again. She placed her hands upon the fabric of her dress, laid out upon the table. She began to stroke it. Gascoigne looked at the rafters, and Anna at the gold.
    It was very unlike her to burst out in such a way. Anna’s nature was watchful and receptive rather than declamatory, and she rarely spoke about herself. Her profession demanded modesty of the strictest sort, paradoxical though that sounded. She was obliged to behave sweetly, and with sympathy, even when sympathy was not owing, and sweetness was not deserved. The men with whom she plied her trade were rarely curious about her. If they spoke at all, they spoke about other women—the sweethearts they had lost, the wives they had abandoned, their mothers, their sisters, their daughters , their wards. They sought these women when they looked at Anna, but only partly, for they also sought themselves: she was a reflected darkness, just as she was a borrowed light. Her wretchedness was, she knew, extremely reassuring.
    Anna reached out a finger to stroke one of the golden nuggets in the pile. She knew that she ought to thank Gascoigne in the conventional way, for paying her bail: he had taken a risk, in telling a falsehood to the gaoler, keeping her secret, and inviting her back to his home. She sensed that Gascoigne was expecting something. He was fidgeting strangely. His questions were abrupt and even rude—a sure sign that he was distracted by the hope of a reward—and when she spoke he glared at her, quickly, and then glanced away, as if her answers annoyed him very much. Anna picked up the nugget and rolled it around in her palm. Its surface was bubbled, even knot-holed, as if the metal had been partly melted in a forge.
    ‘It appears to me,’ Gascoigne said presently, ‘that someone waswaiting for you to smoke that pipe last night. They waited until you were unconscious, and then sewed this gold into your dress.’
    She frowned—not at Gascoigne, but at the lump in her hand. ‘Why?’
    ‘I have no idea,’ the Frenchman said. ‘Who were you with last night, Miss Wetherell? And just how much was he willing to pay?’
    ‘Listen, though,’ Anna said, ignoring the question. ‘You’re saying that someone took this dress off me, sewed in all this dust so carefully , and then laced me back up—filled with gold—only to leave me in the middle of the road?’
    ‘It does sound improbable,’ Gascoigne agreed. He changed his tack. ‘Well then: answer me this. How long have you had that garment?’
    ‘Since the spring,’ Anna said. ‘I bought it salvage, from a vendor on Tancred-street.’
    ‘How many others do you own?’
    ‘Five—no; four,’ said Anna. ‘But the others aren’t for whoring. This is my whoring gown—on account of its colour, you see. I had a separate frock for lying-in—but that was ruined, when—when the baby died.’
    There was a moment of quiet between them.
    ‘Was it sewed in all at once?’ Gascoigne said presently. ‘Or over a period? I suppose there’s no way to tell.’
    Anna did not respond. After a moment Gascoigne glanced up, and met her gaze.
    ‘Who were you with last night, Miss Wetherell?’ he asked again—and this time Anna could not ignore the question.
    ‘I was with a man named Staines,’ she said quietly.
    ‘I do not know this man,’ Gascoigne said. ‘He