Gillem hesitates. Even saying it seems like a betrayal. “She’s my daughter.”

“Your half daughter?”

“No, my daughter.”

“And you’ve never met her before?” Artemio considers a moment, then screws up his face again in this expression that Gillem, in the midst of his own very real distress, finds disproportionately irritating. “Do you think I’ve got children I’ve never met?”

Gillem laughs.

Artemio looks very serious. “Daddy?”

“Yes, my darling?”

“I don’t much like my flapjack. It has, like, cherries or something really random in it. Can I get something else instead? That brownie thingy with Smarties?”

“No, my darling. It’s late. It’s almost six. Mumma has a shepherd’s pie waiting for you at home.” He makes another stab at it. “Celia—your half sister—she’s coming to London, and I imagine she’ll be staying with us.”

“Where’s she going to sleep?” Good God, just like Kate. This primal sin, the spurned child coming to claim her rightful mite, is once again getting reduced to a question of housekeeping.

“In the spare room.”

“Where Mirjana sleeps when you and Mum are out late?”

“Exactly.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes, my love.”

“Can’t I please, please have a brownie? I promise I’ll eat my tea.”

“All right, my darling. If you promise to eat your tea.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes, my darling?”

“Where was I? Did I tell you about dinner yet? So then they all sit down to dinner, except Peter Sellers has this chair that’s much too short for him, and every time …”

“Hello?” The man’s voice is cautious, as if he’s not used to answering the phone.

Before Rat can speak, the operator breaks in, asking him, presumably, if he will accept a reverse-charge call from Celia.

A moment’s terrifying silence. Then, “Yes, yes I will,” says the man’s voice. Him. Gillem. Her father.

The operator says something else.

Then, “Celia?” He pronounces the name English-fashion. SEEL-ya. He’s talking to her. He’s saying her name.

“Oui, bonjour.” Her voice comes out croaky.

“Vous êtes où, maintenant?” His, by contrast, is pleasant, low, with a strong British accent. An old-fashioned accent, like when the Queen of England came to France and spoke on the radio. Rat’s not used to being called “vous.”

“I’m in Newhaven.”

“Newhaven? In Sussex? Can you speak up? I can’t hear you very well.”

“Yes.”

“Are you coming to London?”

“Yes,” she says, trying to bring out the words from a throat that’s closed tight with nerves. Coughs to clear it, and chokes on her cough. “Maybe this evening,” she ventures. “It depends how quickly I get a ride. Is it far?”

Pause. “You have friends who are going to drive you?”

“No, I’m hitchhiking.” She needs to tell him now that’s she’s not alone. She stammers a bit, then dives in. “I’m traveling with my little brother.”