There was also the fact that, while Martin was not analysing his own daughter, like the founding father of his profession, he was writing a paper with her about different approaches to schizophrenia. It was a subject on which both their professional interests converged, so why shouldn’t they collaborate in writing about their findings? This particular entanglement of family and therapy seemed to be taking place at an impeccably academic level of discussion, but the fact that Sebastian was suffering from the complex disease he had urged her to focus on created a secret familial overload that only Martin was aware of. From a certain point of view, it might look as if an adopting father and an adopted daughter were repressing the genetic Caliban of a mad twin for their own convenience and peace of mind. This would of course have been an illusion. They were both aware of the weakness of the evidence for a genetic basis to schizophrenia and the startling contrast between Olivia’s mental health and Sebastian’s reinforced that view. Still, in the underwater world he had spent the last half-hour exploring, the world of incongruous encounters and potential unravelling, the subject matter of their paper seemed to be wrapping its tentacles around the authors and dragging them into murky depths. It was worth acknowledging these dimensions in order to discount them with more clarity.

PART THREE

17

Olivia was lying in bed, her hands pressed to her bulging belly, feeling the baby kick and turn and enjoying a moment of communion she chose not to share with Francis, although he was lying beside her.

‘It is amazing here,’ she said instead, as the electric blinds purred up, unveiling the view from their bedroom. On one side, far below, a redwood forest ran down to the edge of the Pacific; on the other, an undulation of autumnal hills flowed south from Hunter’s house. In the distance, she could see the sharper creases of the Santa Lucia Mountains, a compressed accordion of chaparral ridgelines. At least a dozen butterflies were resting on the plate-glass window, some with pulsing wings, as if catching their breath before their next flight.

‘Those Monarch butterflies have flown down from northern Canada to spend the winter here,’ said Francis. ‘It takes four generations to make the three-thousand-mile round trip.’

‘Each generation must be born knowing the way,’ said Olivia.

‘Yes, when it comes to navigation, they have bigger minds than any one of us – just more distributed through the generations and the kaleidoscope.’

‘Kaleidoscope?’ said Olivia.

‘It’s a collective noun for a group of butterflies.’

‘I thought it was swarm.’

‘I went with kaleidoscope.’

‘Such an aesthete,’ said Olivia.

‘It’s true,’ said Francis, staring out of the window, smiling.