– George says the Cwen thing is your idea.

– What Cwen thing?

– George says that this government, of which you are a part, is changing the planning rules to make it easier—

– Mother, did he really say that? I told him, it’s not even public yet, he needs to shut up. He’ll get me in trouble.

– Well, I’m not developing Cwen or the wood.

– No, of course not, Mother. I know that.

– So. How are you, then? Why are you ringing? Is it about Mariam, Zoe’s tutor?

– I wasn’t ringing about that, though Henry has sent me at least five texts. He says I must pay for the tuition. How much do I owe you?

– I wasn’t going to ask you for money, obviously.

– Henry’s insisting. I’ll get my secretary to set it up tomorrow. So, about my visit next week—

– You can’t make it. Zoe will be so disappointed.

– I can make it. The thing is. I’ve been meaning to ask. It’s a piece that one of the Sunday papers are doing; a feature on me in my childhood home. They want to take some photos. Nothing too intrusive, just a few—

– A bleak time in terms of flowers—

– A photographer and an assistant.

– In the garden, not in the house?

– A few internal shots too, I think. Next to some of the family pictures maybe. I’m wondering about the Burne-Jones. Father loved that picture, didn’t he?

– The Sea Nymphs? Yes, of course. I’ve got to go now, Seb. Love to Camille and the children.

Eva turned the phone off with a knuckle. She hadn’t thought of the Burne-Jones as an asset before. But there it was, hanging right under her nose. She had nothing against Burne-Jones himself but the painting was a bit depressing: three unhappy-looking young women hovering in a chilly-looking sea, clad only in their own long hair, with the island of Cwen in the background, like a seventh bosom. Apparently he’d used island schoolgirls as models, and paid them a pittance. Of course, Burne-Jones himself had been paid almost nothing for the picture; invited up as a young man, by Harry’s great-great-grandfather. How much would The Sea Nymphs go for today? A million, two?

What Eva knew for a fact was that, even a year ago, Seb would never have agreed to be photographed at Harcourt. Five years ago, he would never have brought a journalist anywhere near his childhood home. In fact, for the majority of his working life, Sebastian had deliberately concealed aspects of who he was. Five years ago, he would have arranged to be interviewed, not in the islands, but in some socially-ambiguous London greasy spoon. It was only since being promoted as junior minister at Defra that a rural profile had become expedient, as it had been for his father before him.