Margaret nodded. “I liked that last tune but it was quite long.”

“You could play like that one day, you know.”

Margaret shook her head, screwing up her face in horrified denial.

“That woman in there was once just like you—learning her scales, doing her practice; she wasn’t born playing like that.”

“I don’t like playing in front of people. As soon as people start listening I make mistakes. I like singing. You don’t have to make the notes; they’re already inside you.”

She was full of these charming and unexpected comments—at once innocent and profound. Questions seemed to bubble up out of her, prompted by anything or nothing. “Do you think Jemimah likes me? I mean, do you think rabbits can actually like people?” “When you look at the sky do you think you see the same color as me?” “If you’ve had one baby does it mean you can definitely have another one?” Jean wasn’t sure how to answer this last one without getting into complicated matters of human fertility, far beyond her remit as unofficial aunt. Given Margaret’s own curious provenance, it was safer to say, “Not always. Babies don’t always come along when you want them to.”

They walked along the Strand in search of refreshment. Margaret was carrying a small shoulder bag—a child-sized version similar to one used by Gretchen—swinging it at ankle-height. Now and then it caught Jean on the back of the leg.

“That’s a dear little bag,” said Jean, sidestepping to avoid another swipe. “What do you keep in it?”

Margaret hoisted it over her head and across her body like a postman’s sack before opening it up to display the contents.

“Handkerchief, purse, toffees, notebook, pencil.”

“What’s the notebook for?”

“It’s for when the angel voices say a word I don’t know, so I can write it down and look it up later.”

“Oh,” said Jean. She hadn’t meant to ask about her voices. Gretchen had said it was best to make nothing of it, but the matter had come up quite naturally. “Have you heard from them lately?” She might have been asking about a pen pal or distant relative.

“They’ve been a bit quiet since I got Jemimah. I think they’re jealous.”

“Possibly,” said Jean, struggling to imagine the human weaknesses of these phantom whisperers. Perhaps it was just loneliness speaking. Perhaps Jemimah really might be a “cure.”

Margaret took out the spiral notebook and flipped it open at the most recent entry.

“Administrator, malfeasance, ormolu,” she read, stumbling over the syllables.

“Good heavens. I’m not sure I understand all of those words myself,” said Jean, wondering again how Gretchen could accept this bizarre phenomenon with such equanimity. If it was down to her she would be all over it until she had these “angels” under a microscope. “You’ll have a splendid vocabulary if this keeps up.”

“My teacher Mrs. Garpitt said I’ve got a reading age of thirteen,” Margaret replied.

Jean could tell she was desperate to tell someone of this accolade but at the same time embarrassed to be thought boastful.