There was a spa in the plaza, and to her surprise, Isabella grabbed her hand and dragged her through the doors. She was not one for places like that, but Isabella insisted.

“You always look tired,” she said. “You should do something nice for yourself.”

It had been ten years since Beatrix had allowed herself the luxury of a treatment. Her initial reservation when she arrived in Hong Kong had been that she didn’t deserve it, then that it was frivolous, and then, as she chased the dragon into oblivion, that everything else was superfluous to her next hit. She would have denied herself the extravagance now, too, but Isabella was adamant.

“Come on,” she said, tugging her hand.

“I don’t know.”

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Isabella said.

Beatrix frowned. “Never?”

Her daughter looked at her bashfully. “No,” she said, a shy smile on her face. “Of course not.”

That gave Beatrix pause. No, she reminded herself. When would she have had the chance? Her childhood had been a litany of institutions and foster parents.

That was all the reason she needed.

“Come on, then.”

She paid for twin massages in the clinic’s luxurious hammam, and as she lay down on the heated table and felt the masseuse’s strong hands begin to knead away the hard knots of tension in her shoulders, she was overtaken by fatigue and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

There was a photo booth next to the entrance to the arcade. Isabella took Beatrix’s hand and tugged her over to it.

“What?” Beatrix said.

“I don’t have any pictures of us together.”

Beatrix had avoided photographs for as long as she could remember. She had to remind herself that this was safe.

“Can we?”

“Of course we can. That’d be nice.”

They dumped their bags next to the booth and squeezed inside. Beatrix put thirty dirhams into the slot and then grimaced at the blank screen. She could see her awkward reflection gazing back at her.

“Smile, Mummy. It won’t kill you.”

Isabella reached across and took her mother’s hand.

Beatrix exhaled and smiled.

They went outside and bought coffees. They took them back to the booth as they waited for the photos to develop. Beatrix looked at her daughter and wondered, yet again, whether she was doing the right thing.

Her focus, her aims, the training.

Was it right?

Was it moral?

Was there an alternative?

Isabella sipped the coffee, a young girl trying to look older than she was, and Beatrix settled on the fact that she was doing the best that she could, doing what she thought was best, in a situation where there was no perfect answer. If the goal was Isabella’s safety, then the end justified the means.

The booth whirred and deposited the strip of photographs. Isabella took it from the slot and tore it in two. She handed half to her mother and kept the other half herself.