As I got dressed this morning, it occurred to me for the first time that Peg Gratton was someone else before she became Peg Gratton. She can't have been born a frizzy-haired butcher's wife who could cut your heart out neat. She was someone else before and I wonder, now, if I'll also be. When does before end, really?

Applying for a job had been done halfway on a lark. The butcher had had a sign that said help was wanted and I'd thought of the day in Thomas Gratton's car, talking about their need for an apprentice. Somehow, they'd taken me seriously anyway.

Today is the first day I'm allowed to actually cut anything. I've been in training, being taught knives, various cuts. Even today, they won't let me handle anything more complex than the cheap cuts and the grinding, but I've got my hair braided around my head and under a cap and a knife in my hand. It feels like the start of something.

And for this man, it feels like his party's only just ended, but I'm used to that and I nod. "I don't think the sides of beef will much mind."