He gave a forced laugh. ‘It’s a bit on the nose, I agree, but I think you’re being unfair. The story itself is good, engaging – propaganda is too crude a word. It’s asking questions. What world are we building here? What do we value?’ He picked up the script and tapped on the lines. He spoke passionately. But then her father spoke passionately about everything. She’d heard him lecture on the beauty of a well-milled screw with as much emotion as he preached on the evils of men given too much power. ‘What is today’s suffering in search of tomorrow’s principles?’

Ada’s fingers clenched around the arms of the chair.

‘A lot, Papa. For some people, life will never be anything but today’s suffering. Isn’t that what started the Revolution in the first place?’

‘Not all methods will be pleasant in the pursuit of justice.’

‘Is that a line from your play?’

Her father’s intense expression soured. It was nothing huge, no great change, no scowl or sneer. His azure blue eyes went cold, the set of his mouth hardened. Ada knew the expression well. She sank back in the chair but didn’t drop her gaze.

‘Careful you don’t cut yourself on all that sharpness.’

‘Then don’t ask me what I think,’ she said curtly. ‘I’m not interested in telling you what you want to hear.’

‘I really did want your opinion.’

Her thoughts were interrupted by a printer opening the door to pass in a tray of coffee and bread.

The air festered as her father poured two cups and passed her a slice of bread. He took the chair on the other side of the desk, making Ada feel as though she was back in her schoolroom, just arrived from Martinique and being quizzed on the intricacies of English tenses by her governess. Behind him, two sash windows looked out onto the street where the lamps were only now being lit, illuminating the crumbling stone houses opposite.

‘I don’t suppose you came for conversation?’ he asked, wrapping his hand around his chipped cup.

‘No.’

‘Well, then. How much this time?’

She named a figure. ‘I know it’s a lot, but the assignat notes simply don’t hold their value.’

‘I am well aware.’

A tense silence stretched between them as their coffee cooled.

Her father broke first.

‘Does Camille know it’s me funding her ridiculous lifestyle?’

‘No. I manage the money. She … is good at other things.’

Her father set down his cup with a clunk. ‘She’s good at causing trouble and that’s about it. I wish you’d give over this silly rebellion and come home—’

‘You know I won’t.’

‘Perhaps I won’t give you any money this time, hmm? How long do you think you’ll last without my help?’

‘Fine! Don’t, then. I’ll find another way to make ends meet.’