— What money can buy, Alex marvelled, looking round him: if it was a criticism then Zachary, in any case, would never apologise, not even to Alex, for what he insisted on thinking of as his great good luck. It was good luck for all of them, for everyone, for art, wasn’t it? And the chapel was saved from dereliction. The little girls went running off, up and down the stairs to the gallery, giving out screams of freedom, dizzied by the emptiness, their hard shoes pounding on the bare boards, Isobel hanging onto Grace’s hand responsibly, Grace protesting, trying to tug her hand away and run by herself. Sandy, who stayed with Alex and Christine at weekends, traipsed after the girls, bored as usual, with his hands in his pockets; he was thirteen and his peaky face, faintly freckled, with a fine uneasy jawline, had just begun to be good-looking. He gelled his pale hair and wore it flopped in a thick wave across his forehead, or falling forward into his eyes; his gaze melted away reluctantly from any encounter, especially with his father. And Alex responded to his son’s withdrawal coolly, although Christine urged him to try harder. He accepted as if it were inevitable that Sandy had finished with him and they must go their separate ways.

They found whole rooms whose existence they had forgotten since they were last shown round: cubbyholes and sculleries and pantries and outhouses; a back kitchen with a brass tap hanging on its pipe away from a wall tiled in ocean green, over a stone sink; the stone steps of a curving stair worn by the passage of many feet; a porcelain toilet in its own throne room, the Thunderer, with an overhead cistern and a chain to pull. In an office a great desk of warped mahogany held record books and accounts from Bethesda chapel days. Breathless from running, Isobel pleaded with Zachary, seizing his hands. — Never, never change this place Zacky, will you? Always leave it like this. Me and Grace love it how it is.

Isobel was stocky and earnest, with a shy sense of decorum and a woman’s developed features, too expressive for her soft face. — Izzy’s right, Zachary said, hunkering down to her level. — It’s perfect like this. Shall we just keep things this way forever, and come picnicking here every weekend?

— It has to change, my darling, Christine said, quick to feel her daughter’s deep attachments and disenchantments. — Zachary’s going to make it into a gallery with paintings and sculptures and installations: that will be lovely too.

Isobel reassured herself. — It will just be lovely in a new way.