‘Do you mind if I turn on the lights?’ Her voice had lost its tremor. Surely now, seeing how desperate he was, how impossible it was to remain here for another day, she would help him get away. Having been a patient for so long, Hélène must know more than anyone how it felt to be trapped, year in, year out, on this godforsaken mountain. A permanent psychiatric patient at the whim of whatever diagnoses and drugs that trickster Gessen might throw at you.

Without waiting for an answer, Hélène strode down the hall and switched on the lights in the kitchen and began to unload the contents of a straw bag on the counter. Eggs, milk, butter, bread in a paper sack. A bunch of carrots and a sack of potatoes. After putting away the food, she lifted a red enamel kettle from the hob and filled it with water.

‘I don’t know what’s upsetting you, but I’ve always found that a cup of tea works wonders.’ She rummaged in the cupboard. ‘I have chamomile, peppermint, and lemon verbena. Or black tea, if you’d rather.’

While waiting for the kettle to boil, she set up a tray with a teapot, cups and saucers, and a blue-patterned bowl of sugar cubes. He was puzzled by all this activity and looked around in growing confusion. When he’d hustled her through the front door, he had the idea they were entering a disused chalet, or even a storage facility. It was too far away from the clinic’s other buildings to house any patients, and the private residences of the staff were clustered around the sprawling manor house. He couldn’t imagine what this was. Although as Hélène moved into the next room to turn on the lights and adjust the curtains, he noticed the window ledges were filled with plants. A piano stood in the corner. Two sofas, upholstered in a slate-grey fabric, faced a stone fireplace. On the walls hung reproductions of paintings one might see in a museum, except their quality was exceptionally fine, and the colours so exquisite, he sensed they weren’t reproductions at all.

He passed his hand over his eyes, expecting the earth to crack open and swallow him whole. Gessen was right. He was mad as a hatter. What other explanation could there be to explain how reality had morphed into a slippery beast, impossible to grasp. When he opened his eyes, Hélène was carrying the tea tray over to the seating area in the living room. She placed it on a low table by the sofa and stooped to examine the mottled leaf on a lush green plant with waxy leaves. For a moment, he forgot all about his plan to hold Hélène hostage, though she made the perfect bargaining chip for getting him back to Cambridge.