“But I’ve just spoken to her.” She’d only wanted God. She hadn’t wanted marriage.

Dawn swung around in her chair, the squeak of it halted by her firm foot on the floor, the other fat leg crossed over it. “Your dress is in the laundry. I’ll bring it up after lunch.”

“I don’t want my dress.” If they’d left her alone none of it would have happened.

“Carol said you were feeling unwell.”

“I need to call my daughter.” There’d be no Finetta, threatening her.

“Isn’t she coming today?” said Dawn.

“Carol assured me she would call her.” There’d be no Ian.

“This morning?” said Dawn.

There’d be no—

“Finetta,” Dawn swung round to face the desk and ran her finger down a list. She picked the telephone from its cradle and dialled. “It’s ringing.” She looked at Enid.

Enid focused on the floor. There was a sweet wrapper wedged under one of the wheels of Dawn’s chair. “I don’t want to speak to her.”

Dawn said, “It’s still ringing.”

“Stay on the phone until you reach her. Tell her not to come.”

“Now, Enid,” said Mandy, smiling at her, “I wouldn’t normally say this, but I do think you might want to see her today.”

“I see her every day,” said Enid, thumping her stick on the floor.

“Every week,” said Mandy, tilting her head as if Enid was a child.

“I don’t want to see her today.”

“No answer,” said Dawn. She put the phone down and squeaked round in her chair towards the nurse with the bad skin. “Put the kettle on, will you?”

Mandy said, “You’ll be glad you did.”

“I will not be glad. Ring her again.” Once upon a time, she’d had servants who did as they were told.

“She did tell me not to say.”

“I know all about it.” Enid straightened her back as best she could. “I’m not in the mood to see anyone today.”

“Are you sure?” Two stars and a moon tilted on their axis.

“I don’t have any sons,” said Enid. “Call her again.”

“She’s not there,” replied Dawn. She got up and the chair groaned and rose.

On the steps of the Basilica de San Lorenzo.