If she could just ask her father … She can hear him behind her, whispering to Mama as he holds the wheel steady. But she doesn’t dare turn round. Mama and Papa have forbidden it: as they had settled her down in the prow of the Thetis – Papa’s yacht, his pride and joy – they had told her that, whatever happened, she mustn’t look back. She had asked why, and they had just shaken their heads – so calm and sensible in spite of all the commotion on the dock, those two heads. There’s nothing behind us, kopella mou. Everything is ahead. Just keep looking ahead, little darling, little bird. And when the sun comes up, it will all be fine.

Why couldn’t she bring Rosie, her pony? Why isn’t Cook with them, or Miss Butland? Why had they had to bundle all their things into Papa’s motor car and drive to Cordelio through crowds of people, Mama sitting beside her in the back, murmuring, ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry,’ like a prayer while Papa’s hands gripped the steering wheel so hard that she could see the shape of his finger bones? Papa, who never drove, but always sat behind Murat the chauffeur. When they had gone aboard the Thetis, Papa had kissed her and said, ‘It’s just like the holidays, isn’t it, my little angel?’ But it hadn’t been. No one had said why they’d had to leave home so quickly. Papa is always right, but this doesn’t seem like a holiday. She curls up more tightly on the bed she has claimed for herself, the big rug from the drawing room, folded into the angle of the prow, and closes her eyes. Home is there, pretty as an iced cake: her own house, safe inside its railings. Pink plaster, fretwork gables, chimneys. Lots of chimneys – she loves them. She counts them now inside her head, and it makes her feel better. What else does she love? The front gate. The tree with blossoms like stars. Their wide, clean street. From the front gate you can see the church; if you wait, you’ll hear the shrill, jolly whistle of the train. Mountains behind; in front, quite far off, the blue sea.

Something in the air is making her feel sick. She presses her face into the scratchy, salty rug and tries to go home again. The street swims back into her head, the iron railings, the trees, whitewashed stones lining the swept gravel of the roadway, the whistle of the train … A voice, calling through the carved marble frame of a doorway. Clipped, high-pitched.

‘Zoë!’

‘Yes, Miss Butland!’