“She was so painfully nervous, so I went up with her. The elevator barely had room for two people and smelled strongly of sweat, and we took it all the way to the twelfth floor, and when we got up there the walkway was slick with ice and the guardrails were low, and Licia got worried that I was going to fall, and she very sweetly held my hand, and we walked slowly up to this plain unmarked door. And from the inside there was just this music. The most beautiful melody, Cal: twenty voices—thirty, maybe—all singing in unison. And she turned to me and thanked me for not being weird about her coming here and asked me if I’d be okay getting back to the car. I called her my sweet child. And then the door opened, and there was this girl with white-blond hair wearing these ugly clumpy shoes, and she smiled the most beautiful smile and asked if she was Alicia Curtis. And Licia nodded, and let go of my hand, and began to walk across the threshold, and the girl asked if I wanted to join them. And I looked at Licia, and I could see what she was thinking. You know, No, Mum, please don’t, so I went downstairs to wait.”

The woman on-screen was ranting now. Her Norwegian accent got stronger by the second: “We need to look away for a moment from the obvious crimes committed by the Andersens because these crimes are a distraction from their actual message. And that message is that people in Europe are tired of their homelands being a dumping ground for the cultural detritus of Africa and the Middle East.”

“God,” I said, “this is chilling. What are they doing, interviewing her? What can she usefully tell us about Garden Island?”

“She’s from a free speech think tank.”

“Free speech?”

“She makes a living winding up people like you, Cal. She’s a provocateur, and she’ll be finished soon. Can you please focus on what I’m trying to tell you? Because I was sitting there with the engine on and the heater on high, and the snow was falling all around, and the apartment building was beautiful in the snow. And when Licia returned to the car we drove quietly along the highway, and she was singing to herself under her breath, but she was shot through with excitement. So I asked her how it went and she said, “I wish you could know the happiness that true faith can bring, Mum.” And it was like the most perfect moment. Except . . .” Elsa was shaking her head, biting back tears.

“Except what?”

“What if the island was her opportunity to get away from us? What if Licia actually wanted out?”

I reached out a hand, drew Elsa to me. “She was happy with her life.”

“Was she?”

“Wasn’t she?”

“I guess I always thought so.”