Worse, in the meantime, deep inside, she felt a pathetic yearning for a world in which everything was clear. For a higher authority than herself; for a system in which the Book – whichever Book – was still revered for the wisdom of the elders. Of course she knew that her thoughts on this subject were irrational; that the yearning she felt came down to familiarity, to the so-oft-repeated poetry contained in the Book of her childhood devotions. Which was bad luck, because, despite the architecture of the French cathedrals, baroque music from Spain, the Madonnas of the Italian Renaissance, weighed in the balance, none of this was worth it, if the wisdom of the elders damaged her daughter’s sense of herself as a woman. Did it, or didn’t it? What she also knew, instinctively, was that a life without a Book was a life of indolence and corruption, of lust but not love, of anger and greed and envy, a life of not caring.

CAMILLE: Then suddenly our house was being doorstepped. They’d warned me about this but Seb worked for Defra. Nothing he’d done so far in his career had warranted doorstepping. Thank God for Eva.

Eva arrived in warrior mode. It was she who dealt with the journalists and photographers on the doorstep – the flash of cameras, the thrust of recording devices: the ridiculous onslaught which went on, day after day. Seb was no help. Possibly he was even enjoying it. That would have made Eva angry, had she had a moment to think about it, but – she hadn’t come down to help Seb. She was in London to lend support to her daughter-in-law and the grandchildren during her son’s ignominious hour in the media glare. Unfortunately, she could remember exactly what it was like.

Eva rang home every evening to check up on Mariam; spoke to Lucija; told Jen, and texted Ruth, to keep an eye out for journalists insinuating themselves with island locals. To her surprise, Nina rang and left a long message, explaining that Mariam’s interview had gone really well, and wasn’t it good that Mariam had found her voice, even if some of the things she was putting out there were hard to hear. Eva listened to it twice, without understanding.

She ignored texts from George:

Zoe was involved in this CWEN stuff?

And from Henry:

Seb mentioned he was supposed to be photographed in front of the Burne-Jones? Is it on loan to an exhibition somewhere?

With the help of Nina, whose idea it was, and Lucija, who typed the email, Mariam Maher sent a message to the London reporter for Dawn, the Pakistani newspaper, offering to give an interview.