‘Of course they did. But if you feel that it hurts to keep dwelling on them, I won’t be the one to keep reminding you.’

He turned the glass this way and that, studying the angle of the fluid against the sides. I must have seen him do that ten thousand times when we were growing up and not once had I ever thought about what was holding that fluid in the glass, stopping it drifting away. I wondered if my father had ever given any thought to the swallower sitting in the middle of Mazarile, hugging everything close to it like a jealous spider.

‘All that matters, I suppose, is that we cherish her memory,’ I said. Then, with a shift of tone: ‘Is that the newspaper with the obituary notice in it, Father?’

His face tightened. ‘It is, Fura, but I wouldn’t want you to be upset by it.’

‘I can’t be any more upset than I already am,’ I said, swallowing down hard and putting a quiver into my lower jaw. ‘But I won’t feel that I’ve done her memory justice unless I read her obituary. I owe her that much, don’t I?’

Father passed the newspaper over to me.

‘It’s tucked away at the bottom of a page. Do you want me to find it for you?’

‘It’s all right,’ I said gamely. I turned the pages, the thin greasy paper rasping against my fingers. I thought of all the newspapers printed each day, on all the twenty thousand settled worlds of the Congregation, and all the serious, respectable men and women who sat at tables like our own, in houses much like this, and in cities and towns much like Hadramaw, counting or lamenting their own blessings while digesting the ups and downs of the fortunes of others. On each of those worlds thousands of other men and women were engaged in the creation, printing and distribution of these newspapers, an effort so concerted and efficient that it was almost like a military campaign, and yet at the end of each day it counted for naught because the papers were gathered up, shredded, made into vast new reams of blank paper, so that the work could begin entirely anew.

‘Yes, I see it now,’ I said, tightening my hold on the pages as I read the few lines reserved for Adrana. It was much as I had imagined: mention of a short illness, beloved daughter, inconsolable loss, terrible sadness and so on. I almost choked back a tear. ‘I didn’t deserve to be the lucky one,’ I said, my voice breaking.

‘You must never say that.’

‘She was always cleverer than me. Why did she have to be the one who died?’

‘Let us be grateful you came back to us,’ Father said. ‘And that you’re here to stay.’