“We’re doing everything that we possibly can for her,” said Dr. Chisholm. “She’s strong and young, which will help greatly.”

“I’m dyyyyyiiiing.” Sophie, sometime in the spring, flinging herself onto the kitchen sofa in imitation of Great-Great-Great-Aunt Beth, who had died young.

“There’s reason to hope,” he said. “She’s a strong young woman, after all.”

He had said that twice before, thought Lulu. And the only reason that people ever said there was reason to hope was when there was also reason not to.

The doctor patted her knee. “Where are your parents?” he asked.

Oh, God, thought Lulu. Her parents. Renewing their love in Fee’s country’s capital.

“On holiday,” she said. “In America. We should telephone them.”

Oh, God, she thought. Telling her parents.

“Not necessarily,” he said. “It’s the middle of the night there, and by the time they got here, the crisis will have passed, one way or the other.” Lulu winced. “You might want to spare them in the expectation that your sister’s going to be fine.”

She looked up and into his eyes. “If it were your daughter in there right now,” she said, “would you want to be told?”

He looked at her with such kindness that she thought she could hardly bear it.

“Yes,” he said, softly. “Yes, I would.”

When Emma arrived a few minutes later, the two sisters ran and clung to each other as if they were clinging to Sophie’s life itself.

“I can’t believe they’ve both let the batteries run down again.” Standing shivering in the hospital’s car park, Emma pressed the end button of her mobile phone and shook her head in frustration. “I’ve told them again and again. What if an emergency happened?”

“Well, we’re finding out now, aren’t we?” said Lulu. “Can’t you remember the name of their hotel?”

“I’m not sure if they told me,” said Emma. “It wasn’t one of the big ones. I wonder if Tom knows. Have you got his number?”

“Of course I haven’t bloody got his number!” said Lulu. “Why the bloody hell would I have bloody Tom’s number?”

“I’m just asking, Lulu,” said Emma. “I think we’re stuck on this one. Dr. Chisholm said there was nothing they could do anyway, didn’t he?”

Lulu closed her eyes.

“He said,” she said, “that by the time they got here, the crisis would have passed. One way or—”

“You don’t have to repeat that bit!”

“Sorry, Em.” But they couldn’t just do nothing, Lulu thought. “I’ll call the home phone anyway and leave a message there. Dad sometimes remembers to check.”

She punched in the number. Her father’s voice answered, rich with the luxury of carefree ignorance. “You’ve reached the Atwaters. Leave a message after the tone and we’ll get back to you.”

But when the tone sounded, she could not at first speak. How to voice to her parents, off on a romantic weekend in Washington, D.C., snug in a hotel room with warm lighting and a deep and comfortable bed, the most terrible news that any parent could ever dread to hear?