“That is what I’m asking you.” Sybil stared down at her, even though she was smaller than Enid and so encased in Victorian satin that her head emerged from the layers like a furious chick grown old in its shell. “You are his mother. What condition does he have? Glendower is adamant that a precursor of some sort must have been noticed. He noted a swelling of the frontal lobes—” She said the uncommon phrase carefully, its sound an effort in her mouth.

“He bashed his head,” said Enid. She buried her hand in the other, pressing on the pain, but she kept her eyes on her mother.

“His head wasn’t right before he bashed it,” said Joan. “Anyone could have seen that.”

For once, Pat was absent. At least there was that. Joan left the window and sat beside Douglas. She wore a long blue silk gown with a plunging neckline which made her look as if she were all breast and didn’t suit her, and a sapphire necklace, which did.

“There’s nothing wrong with his head,” said Enid. She felt like Sisyphus, nearing the top of the escarpment. Loose stones slipped under her feet, the boulder was toppling. “He just needs more time.”

“He’s had a month, Enid,” said Douglas.

“And no improvement at all,” finished Sybil.

Joan said, “Well I’ve always thought his head was too big. We all have.”

“His head’s fine,” said Enid.

“His head is not fine,” snapped Douglas.

“What do you mean, not fine? You told me I should get up and get him out. You said I was shutting him away.”

“We’re not talking about Epsom.”

“He’s just—” She scrabbled for a way out, as Fagus had from the searing fire of his split skull. “He always gets better.”

“Always is the point,” said Douglas.

“I thought it even when he was a baby,” said Joan. “It was obvious.”

“Then why didn’t anyone say anything?” cried Enid. The boulder fell, the drawing room fire let out a snap and an ember flew out and landed on the rug. Joan got up and poured herself a drink. Douglas stubbed out the ember.

Sybil raised her eyes an inch above Enid’s head. “You’re his mother,” she said quietly. “You should have said something.”

Enid hadn’t changed for dinner. She was still in her walking clothes, put on after lunch when escape had seemed the best solution, when there was only one more night to go before they could get back home and hide and cry and wonder what to do. She’d been on her way out to sit by the loch and talk to the ghost of her father. She’d been going to pray again for help, but Douglas had caught her in the hall as she’d been putting on her coat and told her that Sybil had called Glendower back.