Last night he’d slept badly, having been woken from uneasy dreams by someone banging on the door to his room. He’d stumbled out of bed in terror, but when he opened the door, no one was there. A full moon was shining in the black sky, and he stepped onto the terrace in his slippers to listen. Nothing but the rustle of small creatures in the underbrush, and the mournful hoot of an owl. Before crawling back to bed he counted, three times, the sandpipers in the painting on the wall, each time coming up with only nine birds. Where was the tenth? He woke in the morning, bleary with fatigue, only to find to his consternation that ten birds skittered along the sand in the receding tide. It was this place. If he wasn’t mad before, he would be soon if he didn’t find a way to break free. As long as that damn watercolour in his room played tricks with his mind, the last thing he wanted was to create a painting of his own.

‘Vidor?’

Her eyes, amber and gold, like a lynx, swam into view. ‘Would you like a glass of water. Or perhaps some tea? I always keep a kettle going.’ She nipped into the anteroom and returned a moment later with two steaming mugs. ‘My own secret blend, a recipe from my village. Mountain herbs picked by hand. Very calming.’ She handed him a mug. ‘Now, tell me about yourself.’ They settled onto high wooden stools in front of an easel. ‘Have you ever made art? Painting and sketching, perhaps. Or maybe something with clay?’

Her expression was so earnest, he was ashamed to admit he was absolutely rubbish at creative expression and had never so much as doodled with a pencil during a department meeting.

‘Don’t worry. Anyone can make art.’ She tapped her sternum. ‘We all have a Michelangelo inside.’ On the table she placed a pad of heavy paper and a number of implements. Pencils, chalk, brushes, finger-paints. ‘Are you right-handed?’ He nodded. ‘Then I suggest you try drawing with your left hand to start. But first, we do some breathing and visualisation exercises. This wakes up the right side of your brain, you see?’ She tapped her head and smiled. ‘Then I’ll leave you alone to make your art.’

She slipped behind him, ‘May I?’ and pressed her right hand on his abdomen and the left on the small of his back. ‘Eyes closed. Deep breaths.’ He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of her perfume. But as his lungs filled with air, a familiar darkness descended, followed by a whoosh and a whisper, like bats at dusk. His knees sagged.

‘That’s right. Deep breaths, in and out. Picture your diaphragm, how it pushes the air out of your lungs. Feel the oxygen flooding into each of your cells. Breath is life. Never forget this. Without breath, we die.’