Tristan stared at her. And stared. And stared, for his mind was unable to process her reply. He didn't know what was more disturbing: the fact that a young lady who had surely used hot water her entire life to bathe and clean herself did not know where it came from, or the fact that he had just hired such a young lady as maid.

"Right..." he finally said, unable to hide how perturbed he was. "This way." He led her through the kitchen - a small space with grey tiles on the floor, old dirty white wallpaper on the walls, a table in the middle, a cooking range in the fireplace, and several cupboards and drawers - into the scullery. In was cold in there, the back door hardly keeping out the draught, and the copper not in use. He pointed at the stone structure beside the sink. "This is where your hot water has come from all your life." It was a bit mean, but he was rather shocked. His mother had never allowed them to ask anything of the servants that they themselves did not know how to do, and he was all the more grateful for the lesson now. "All the hot water - safe for drinking - is heated here, for personal hygiene, washing up, for laundry... There's space under the copper for a fire, and a hole in the outside wall for the smoke."