Eliza had grown up with that postcard. It had been displayed on the fridge of every house they’d lived in. On the fridge of her own flat in Melbourne. Before she left, she’d packed it away safely in the box of books Rose was storing for her.

The gallery was crowded, despite the good weather. Eliza didn’t ask for directions. She did what her mother had done. She walked through one large room into the next. Down a hallway to another. Through an archway into another. Then she stopped and abruptly turned around. There it was.

Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose by John Singer Sargent.

It was in an ornate golden frame. An early summer garden, alive with masses of flowers: white lilies, blush-pink roses, deep-red and butter-yellow carnations. Amid them, two young girls in long white frilled dresses holding a paper lantern each, engrossed in setting the candles inside alight, the dull white paper transforming into an apricot glow. Tucked here and there among the flowers around them were other lanterns, already glowing apricot-pink. The two girls looked as though they were lit from the inside too, their white dresses bright against the green foliage.

Eliza felt her heart beat faster. She stepped nearer. It was so familiar to her. Yet the postcard hadn’t come close to capturing the lantern light, the skin tones, the detail of the grass, the flowers. The secret world of the children, lighting candles with no adult in sight, bewitched by the magic they were creating.

Eliza had been prepared to be moved by seeing the painting. What she hadn’t expected was what she realised now. Her mother had once stood here, in this room, in this art gallery. On this same spot.

The grief came like a wave. Oh, Mum. She was suddenly crying. In public, in the most famous gallery in London, attracting attention. She could feel it, but she couldn’t seem to move.

She wanted to be here with her mother. She wanted to be looking up at the painting with her. Hear her whispering, ‘Isn’t it beautiful, Eliza? Isn’t it the most glorious piece of art in the world? See the lanterns, that glow the artist somehow created with paint? Wouldn’t you swear it was all real?’

Finally she turned, wiping her eyes, ignoring a curious glance from an elderly couple. She took a seat on the bench in front of the painting. She didn’t know how long she stayed there. Ten minutes, twenty?