That night, he held her close in bed. Ginie hadn’t said anything about Lil’s remarks, but as he ran his hands over her in the dark, he felt tears on her cheeks. Long after Stephen had fallen asleep, Ginie lay staring into darkness, revisiting painful memories. It was funny how the ache of losing a baby never diminished with the passing years. If anything, it grew stronger, changing shape so the sharpness of the pain was never blunted. She couldn’t help imagining the sort of person he might have grown into. She was sure he would have been fearless, quick to smile with dark hair and brown eyes like her. In her fantasies, he was always a boy. It didn’t occur to her that she might have had a daughter.

She had fallen pregnant in Genoa, before she met Paulo. She had been careless and stupid. The man, a handsome but impoverished marquis, packed up and vanished from the city when she told him. Fear and despair ran through Ginie’s veins like poison. She couldn’t confide in her parents; Rosa would throw her out for good. She went to her old nanny, Maria, the woman who had raised her with scolding and kisses. Maria had retired, but she was still more of a mother to Ginie than Rosa had ever been.

Maria took her to a dingy house in a poor street – it wasn’t even a clinic. Ginie remembered the indignity of her feet being hooked up in stirrups, the clink of instruments, the coldness of the metal being forced into her. The doctor had a sallow complexion and grey hair that brushed his collar, brown eyes and tobacco-stained teeth. The tip of his tongue protruded between his lips as he worked. Ginie closed her eyes against the sight of him between her legs. It felt like the jagged teeth of a saw working inside her. To stop herself crying out, she bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted the iron tang of blood.

Several days later, she was burning up with fever and had excruciating abdominal pain. Rosa rushed her to the family doctor without any idea of the real reason for her sickness. Dr Fasoli was the opposite in every way to the man who had operated on her: his hair was clipped, clean and brushed away from his face. He had smooth skin with smudges of purple beneath his eyes and his hands smelt of carbolic soap. He’d been as gentle with Ginie as he could, both during the physical examination and in the consultation afterwards. Although he spoke in a low, soft voice, cloaking his words in medical terms, nothing could hide their sting.

The infection had caused permanent damage to her womb. She would never have children.