‘Does it show?’

‘You wear it heavily, like a cloak. Are you sure it’s what you want to be?’

‘I’m  . . . not sure.’

‘I always think it’s best to be sure of at least one thing in life.’

‘And what are you sure of?’ I asked, trying to maintain a credible conversation.

‘That I’m no longer sure of anything,’ she replied, with a sudden air of melancholy. She tipped her head on one side, paused for thought, then offered to paint my portrait for five hundred euros, unframed. I had neither the time nor the funds to be painted, but very much liked the idea of more time in her company, especially if it involved her staring at me intently, for whatever reason.

‘You could find a better subject,’ I murmured, indicating my face. I’d come to terms with my looks soon after biting off Gary Findlay’s ear. All the frustration I’d ever had was discharged in that one violent event. Gary lost an ear, but I gained clarity and became the curator of my own appearance.

‘Are you Pool or kinborne?’ she asked.

‘Pool.’

‘My husband was Pool.’

And then, quite unexpectedly, she placed a soft hand on the twisted side of my head. The only person to have touched me there was Sister Zygotia and Lucy, once, when she was drunk. My eye twitched and I felt a shiver of fear run up the side of my body. She had no right to be so forward, but the intimacy, even without affection, was curiously thrilling in a way that was difficult to explain. But I was deluding myself: she was older, Alpha, and completely outside and above the profile of a potential partner. I was being unutterably foolish, and put the thoughts to the back of my head.

‘I might find a better subject, yes,’ she said, gently pushing my head into profile with an index finger on the tip of my nose, ‘but not one of such  . . . inspiring intrigue.’

It was the finest compliment my appearance had ever received, and I blinked rapidly to hide the dampness that had risen to my eyes.

‘Then I accept.’

‘Come on, then.’

I caught a whiff of her scent as she turned on a heel and walked past me, a delicate mix of oil paints, fresh laundry and musk. We walked around the circular inner corridor to the room on the opposite side of the building and she beckoned me inside. Every inch of wall space was covered with canvases and anything not hung was stacked against the walls.