‘Here we go,’ Sylvie said, unrolling a sheet of paper on the table and tapping a dark line that snaked across the page. ‘It’ll face Satima Peak, in the Aberdares, and the back will face the Wanjohi River.’

‘Sylvie insisted we live near water,’ Nicolas said. ‘I don’t know what it is about people who grow up in the city. They always worry if there’s no water nearby.’

Sylvie stuck her tongue out at him. ‘And people who grow up in the countryside worry if they can’t see the horizon.’

‘If you’re talking about your monstrous skyscrapers –’

‘Much more practical than your draughty old castles.’

‘Our castles – exactly. We need to see the horizon to see who’s coming to attack us.’

Sylvie waved a hand. ‘Who wants them? Anyway, I love water. I used to think I’d like a burial at sea.’

I remembered the times I’d planned my own funeral as a boy, whenever my mother had been angry with me, imagining myself finally beyond her reach and how sorry she’d be. I knew it was wrong to think about it, even sometimes wish it, so it was surprising to hear Sylvie talk so openly about the things I dreamed about in private. I felt a thrill run through me at the thought of everything we shared, and how brave she was.

‘Like the Vikings?’ Maud asked.

‘Exactly.’

‘Enough of that,’ Nicolas said. ‘You know very well that as Countess de Croÿ you’re obliged to lie next to me in some dreadful family vault and haunt the castle for generations.’

‘I’m not going back to France, Nico,’ she said. ‘Not even when I’m dead.’ The skin around her mouth and eyes seemed suddenly tighter.

A toto appeared with a tray bearing a jug of lemonade and four glasses, and we watched him pour in silence. I glanced at Sylvie out of the corner of my eye, willing Nicolas to do something to reassure her.

‘Well anyway. To the new house,’ he said when we all had our glasses, and drank his lemonade quickly.

I brought the glass to my lips. Maud was looking at Sylvie, who was looking at Nicolas, who was looking at the floor. In that moment I thought I could see how unsuited he was to taking care of his wife, how she could have felt trapped by his lack of understanding. Even I knew how much she’d hated France, and we’d only met a few times. I wanted to say something to lift the heavy atmosphere in the room, but I couldn’t think of anything.

Samson, who’d been lying in the sunlight on the porch, got up and came indoors. He walked straight over to Sylvie and laid his head in her lap.

‘You beauty,’ she said.

He snorted air out of both nostrils, looking up at her with wide eyes.