‘I promise. He’s my brother, isn’t he?’

‘You have always been my gift, Zoë. My gift from the sea.’ Mama takes a painful breath. ‘Do you forgive me?’

‘Forgive you, Mama? What for?’ Zoë stares at her in surprise.

‘For pretending to be your mother, all those years ago.’

‘My …’ Zoë’s heart seems to stop for a moment. She takes Mama’s hand and presses it against her face. ‘You are my mother. You’ve never pretended.’ She gulps, fighting tears. ‘I’ve been very, very lucky. I’ve had two mothers. And both of them loved me … loved me just …’

‘That makes me so happy. Shush, darling girl. I’m sorry I upset you.’

‘Upset me, Mama? I love you!’

Mama struggles upright and takes Zoë in her arms. She is nothing but bone beneath her nightshirt and her skin smells powdery and sour, but Zoë doesn’t notice. She buries her face in Mama’s hair and sobs.

‘Shush, shush, my little bird! Shush.’ Mama strokes Zoë’s back. She begins to whisper something into Zoë’s ear. Through her crying, Zoë begins to make out a tune and then the words, low and achingly familiar.

Nani nani, my darling daughter

Sleep sweetly, Mama’s here

She’s going to bring you five white eggs

Five full baskets

To lay around your bed.

The old lullaby, the sweet nonsense of the words that Mama had sung her, countless times, in tents, in abandoned buildings, in seething crowds, calms Zoë now as it had always calmed her then.

‘One more thing,’ Mama is saying. ‘When I go, let me go alone. Do you understand? Everyone here is a widow or a widower, and so many are only half in this world. The other half is below, with the ones they’ve lost. With Charon. I want all of you to stay here. I’m not afraid of the boatman. I’m afraid of turning around on his boat, and finding you behind me. Don’t cry for me. Don’t yell and scream and all that nonsense. Let the old ravens do that. Let me go, Zoë.’

‘I don’t want to!’

‘And I don’t want you to. But you must. Do you promise?’

Zoë swallows and winds her fingers through Mama’s hair. ‘If I can’t cry, what can I do?’

‘You can sing for me, like the country women do. But later, later. Whenever you sing, sing for me. Can you promise that, my daughter?’

‘Yes, Mama.’ Zoë closes her eyes and thinks of all the songs that will be sung, all the songs already germinating in her heart. ‘I do. I promise.’