Then one afternoon, Rat can bear it no longer. She goes out into the garden and knocks on the door of Gillem’s studio.

For a long time, there is no answer. When she hears his footsteps, her heart beats painfully fast.

“Ah, there you are,” Gillem says. His tone is stiff but pleasant. He glances at his watch. “Are you ready for some tea? Come inside.”

He shows her the new drawing he’s been working on the last couple of days. He’s beginning on the flower section now: he’s drawn an oversized water lily that looks wildly obscene. And he’s received in the mail a sample of the Indian embroidery, but the color of the woolen threads isn’t right.

“Gillem?” She gulps down her tea much too fast, and nearly chokes.

“Yes, Celia?” He’s looking at her quizzically.

There is something she needs to know.

She stops, stumbles, starts again. “Gillem … It is true I’m your kid, isn’t it?”

Since she’s come to London, everything’s gone so murky on her. All the things she was dead-sure would become clear once she finally met her English family. The parts of her Vanessa didn’t know, or lied about. Now it turns out her grandmother’s been put in a home because she’s demented, and her father is like this cabinet where for every drawer you manage to open, a dozen more lock tight.

Gillem looks at her from head to foot, twisting his mouth to one side. “Have you ever looked in a mirror? I’m afraid it is.”

Rat laughs, but somewhere deep in her chest the laughter’s closer to tears.

“I mean, the family resemblance is … appalling.” He smiles at her. “Don’t worry—you’ll probably grow out of it.” The smile is very sweet, almost beseeching, as if he’s hoping she will just leave it at that.

But she can’t. She tries to put it as politely as she can, but she’s not letting him off the hook. “Well, what I was wondering was—you’ve been so kind to me and Morgan, now that we’ve finally shown up on your doorstep, so it’s not like you’re a monster—but—why didn’t you ever want to see me, if you knew I was your child?”

Gillem suddenly looks much older. He sits down, runs his hands through his hair so it stands on end, then gets up. Paces. “Oh dear, Celia. That’s rather a thorny question. Are you sure you want to—”

“Yeah, I do.”

Long pause, while he dumps the teacups in the sink, searches for a towel to dry his hands. Loops back and sits down again. And then he speaks. “I met your mother—well, twice. Once in a nightclub, the second time in a bar.”