A rosy-cheeked woman, who carries more weight than is flattering, appears in pursuit of two of the smaller children.

“Twins! Twins!” she calls after them as they speed away on a shared tricycle. “I have filled a bath for you. Come along now, do. We mustn’t waste the hot water. Whatever would Pa say?”

The children seem not to care, but only pedal faster and giggle louder.

“Twins!” the woman wails at them as they disappear through the hole in the back wall and out, as far as Bram can tell, into the darkening garden. Noticing him at last, the woman brightens. “Oh! Are you he? The artist, is it you?”

“Well, yes, I am. It is.” Bram snatches his hat from his head and is about to introduce himself properly but the woman spins on her heel and yells up the stairwell.

“Gudrun! Gudrun, he’s here. Will you tell Perry? Gudrun, where are you?” she cries, chasing her words up the stairs.

Bram waits awkwardly in the hall while further chaos swirls around him. More children tear in one door and out of another. The dog decides they are more fun than he is and gives chase. Bram can hear raised adult voices on the floor above. A boy with startling red hair, aged about seven Bram guesses, comes to stand next to him. He stares up with a pale, serious face.

“Pa’s gone out,” he says.

“Oh, I see. Was that your mother? Mrs. Mangan?”

“No, and yes,” says the boy. “She’s not my mother. She is Mrs. Mangan.”

“Ah.”

“My name’s Freedom,” the boy tells him, and then points at various darting figures. “That’s Honesty, Truth, and Purity. Those are the twins. Their names are Leo and Vincent, but mostly we just call them the twins.”

“I’m Bram. Bram Cardale. I’ve come to stay here. I’m a painter.”

The boy receives this information without a flicker of interest.

How many like me has he seen come and go, Bram wonders. How many hopefuls with their fragile talent and bright ambition?

“Do you know when your father is expected home?” he asks.

The boy shrugs.

“Who can ever know for certain what Mangan will do?” says a voice on the stairs. A woman comes down, her hair the exact color and texture of the boy’s, but worn long, loose and flowing about her shoulders. She is very tall and very beautiful, and her accent gives away German origins. Her skirt is loose and covered in paint, and the shape of her blouse suggests the absence of any sort of corset. She moves with fluid, graceful strides. “Mangan will do whatever Mangan wants to do whenever Mangan pleases,” she says, coming to stand in front of Bram.

Now that she is close to him he can see there is oil paint on her face, too. She takes a slim cheroot from a silver case and puts it in her mouth. “Have you a light?” she asks.

“I’m afraid I don’t smoke.”