“I think I do.” Pascal smiled.

“The Monday. By moonlight. We’ll have a moonlight child. We—” She stopped, seeing his tears. “Oh, tell me—please tell me. You did want this? You are happy? You will love him? Or her? And me… You will love me and trust me now? Always? I will, always. Oh, please, answer me, Pascal.”

Pascal drew her against him and pressed her face against his heart. Just for an instant, there and then gone, he felt some vestigial sadness, almost a weariness, as if his morning’s dream had returned. It clouded the edge of his vision momentarily, this product of the disparities between them, in years, in experience. Fortunately the sensation was brief; wisely, he concealed it.

“Which question first?” he asked gently, kissing her. “My darling, this may take some time…”

Lindsay always wept at weddings, and of course at funerals. At christenings, she discovered, she wept too. First she wept because the words of the service were so beautiful; then she wept because Max and Charlotte’s baby was sleeping so peacefully; then she wept again because holy water woke it, and on waking, the angelic baby bawled.

As she was leaving the group by the church after the ceremony, making her way along a narrow pathway bordered by gravestones and the foam of May wildflowers, Markov caught up with her.

“Good,” he whispered. “But don’t overdo it. Your mascara’s running again. We want discreet sentiment. Wipe your eyes.”

“Oh, piss off, Markov,” Lindsay said. “This isn’t acting. Go away.”

Markov went. Lindsay rubbed her eyes with a tissue, then skulked off to a corner, under some trees.

She watched the rest of the large christening party linger by the church for a few last photographs. Various friends and neighbors, whom she knew; Tom, persuaded into a suit for once, with his girlfriend Katya on his arm; Charlotte cradling her lovely baby; and Max, beaming at everyone, Max looking absurdly tall, thin, elbowy, and proud. For some reason Max’s elbowiness made her want to weep again. She sobbed quietly into her sodden Kleenex. From the church came wails from Max’s sons: “More pictures? Do we have to?”

“Shut up, Alex. Stand still.”

“What’s all the fuss about? It’s only a stupid girl…”

Lindsay smiled. She fixed her eyes on the tombstones in front of her and began to read the epitaphs: 1714, 1648, 1829. Much-loved wife, dearly beloved husband of, widow of, daughter of… The epitaphs calmed her; she dried her eyes.

The group by the church was leaving now. Only a few of the guests lingered, as the rest set off for the party at Max’s and the christening champagne. She could see the tall figure of Rowland McGuire, on the edge of the group as always. He was in conversation with a young girl Lindsay knew to be Mina Landis. Her parents were divorcing—or so Charlotte said; she and her mother were returning to America soon. The girl was slightly built, and seemed painfully shy; Rowland seemed to be making an effort to draw her out, but his kindness was receiving little reward. The girl hung her head, and seemed to make monosyllabic replies; shortly afterward she was claimed by her mother and swept away. Rowland lingered, looking up at the church, unaware he was observed.