May was her favourite month to be in Berlin, but it was one that she wasn’t often able to enjoy there, because of school. Easter was the more usual time she and her brothers came to visit, but this year Max and Hugo had gone down with measles just before Easter and, though in the normal way of things they would have now been back at St Dunstan’s, they’d been excused for a month on the grounds they were recuperating, and as she was always brilliantly ahead in her schoolwork, her mother had leniently decided it would do no harm if she too spent May in Berlin.

With a delicious shiver of anticipation she flung the window open and, as she had known it would, the heady scent of linden blossom filled the air.

With her hands splayed on the window sill she leaned dangerously far out and announced to the world at large: ‘It’s going to be a wonderful day. Absolutely spiffing!’

There was so much delightfulness lying ahead of her, she didn’t know which event to look forward to the most.

There was Claus, of course. Ever since she could remember, looking forward to being in Berlin had meant looking forward to being with Claus. Not that he ever spent much time with her. There were only three months’ difference in age between him and Hugo, and ten months between him and Max, and because of this closeness her brothers monopolized most of his time—especially when Claus visited Yorkshire.

In Berlin, though, things were sometimes a little different, for here there were far more interesting things for her brothers to do than to press-gang Claus into games of cricket or, with other friends, rugby. In Berlin there was far more chance of her having her favourite cousin to herself.

There was also Hester to see. Though technically speaking Hester was Lotti’s best friend, when they were all together Hester spent most time with her. The reason was simple. Hester’s parents were very conservative, very mindful of what was proper and not proper—and they wanted their only child to be exceedingly proper. Which, as a good Jewish girl, Hester was. It was, however, very difficult for her—or anyone else—to remain well behaved when in Lotti’s company.

Lotti was turbulent mischief personified. If there was trouble to be found, then Lotti found it. Last night, for instance, within a half-hour of their arrival, Lotti had sat cross-legged on the high bed and announced she was going to dragoon Max into taking her to the famous Romanische Café, near to the Memorial church.

‘It’s where all the artists, actors, actresses, dancers and writers go,’ she had said, ‘and now Max is nearly eighteen he’ll be able to take me there. He might even meet and fall in love with a beautiful actress. I bet he doesn’t get to meet many beautiful actresses in Yorkshire.’

Though Nancy had privately liked the idea of going to a place where writers met, she’d had no intention of making Lotti feel cleverer than she already did. Lotti was, after all, almost a year younger than she was. If any kow-towing in admiration was to be done, it should be being done the other way around.