Johanna put a decanter of red wine down beside him. ‘Hans says you’re to pour it for the others, not drink it all yourself.’ Her hair brushed his cheek as she whispered her instruction.

‘In that case, you’d better bring a second decanter at once,’ he said.

What a nice girl she was, he thought, as she laughed and disappeared. Quite guileless. Perhaps she would lose her way back to the servants’ quarters at midnight and knock on his door instead. Then they would have such fun together, keeping warm under the heavy winter duvet with its starched cover. It would be like the old days of the night-time excursions. He had been alive then. Unhappy, desperate, but at least alive.

‘Thank you for keeping my place,’ said Charlotte, sitting down. ‘This room is always such a lottery. I’ve had the best and the most boring evenings here. On consecutive nights.’

‘How’s the little girl?’

‘Asleep. She was tired from travelling. Mary’s going to sit with her.’

‘Poor Mary, missing the party.’

‘I’m going to take her some cakes and wine afterwards.’

‘Does she ever join in?’

‘She’ll come down later. And she’ll dance. It’s a tradition.’

‘Who’s her partner?’

‘It used to be my father. Now it’s Dr Bernthaler.’

‘Does she enjoy it?’

‘Not at all. She only did it to please my father. She could tell it made him happy.’

‘Would you like some wine? It’s rather good, isn’t it?’

‘Jacques built up a cellar when the clinic first opened. When it was doing well and they could afford it.’

Charlotte was easy to talk to, he found. Reassured by the fact that his article about the Schloss was at the printers’, too late to change, she felt free to tell him stories of life on the Wilhelmskogel, where she and Martha had grown up, and then about their move to London.

Anton wondered, as she spoke, if she had lovers or if men were deterred by the child. Perhaps Charlotte, not Johanna, would come and knock at his door. That was more likely. Yes. She’d marched with the suffragettes, she told him. As well as being such good company, she’d be athletic and commanding. And would he think of Martha when he made love to her? Would it count as having slept with both of them? Would they make the same sounds, kiss him in the same way? Perhaps, for reasons of research, he’d also need to sleep with Martha, to be sure that …

‘More wine?’ Johanna was pouring it into his glass.

‘Thank you. So, by this time your father had retired, I suppose.’

‘He was unable to carry on working,’ said Charlotte. ‘He was too ill. Tell me, Herr Heideck, are you going to write another book one day?’

‘There are too many books already, don’t you think? What do we have left to tell each other?’

‘But you should. There may be too many books, but not enough good ones.’

‘How do you know mine would be good?’