I sat on the couch staring at the tall windows with their striped silk curtains, the framed pair of Chagall drawings above the fireplace, the elegant, hushed beauty of the room. Outside, it was already dark. I had never loved this house, I realised, had never loved London. It struck me that I could sell the house; there was no reason for me to keep it. And there was nothing really, apart from Sylvia, that bound me to London. I could take Flora to Rajakkad for Christmas. Perhaps we could even spend a few months there. Javier could teach Flora, the same way he had taught Lucian and me when we were young. I tried to imagine Flora running through the garden at Rajakkad. My father’s garden. Perhaps she will inherit Rajakkad one day. This child not of my father’s blood, nor mine. Let her have it, and La Mirande too. Let her not ever be beholden to a man.

It is dark already when I reach the priory; only seven, but it might as well be the witching hour, so black it is here at night. The rumble of the sea sounds louder than usual; I will miss its insistent roar and heave when we are gone.

Inside the priory, Nicholas has lit a fire and is sitting before it reading, his profile sharply illuminated like one of those silhouettes cut from dark paper. Beside him on the sofa Flora is sleeping, just the wild mess of her fair hair visible above the blanket. When I sit down beside her, she stirs and murmurs something. Her brow is furrowed; a tiny v between her eyes. As I watch her there, curled up under a red and blue rug crocheted by some unknown woman’s hands, I know that I would lie again. A hundred times over I would tell that lie. I would do whatever was needed.

So there it is, Max. The child is with me because of a long-ago lie. And none of it gives me pause. I never told anyone about the lie. There were times when I wanted to tell you. I thought that, of all people, you would understand the necessary slippages of the world. The secrets that lurk beneath recorded history. You knew what it was to provide shelter to a child not your own. But I never said anything. If this is a confession, I have no intent of making penance, no contrition to offer. We have, all of us, done what we thought was necessary.

Flora stirs and looks confused for a moment as she surfaces from sleep, then an expression of amazement comes over her face as she stares up at me.