‘You never know what’s forbidden?’

He grinned in his good-natured way but his eyes were bleak. ‘And you do in your country?’ He saluted with a clenched fist to the forehead. ‘This is Comrade Milos, Grade Three, Marionette Pioneers, first battalion, based in The Milos Marionette Theatre, in the People’s Republic of… Czechoslovakia.’

Milos always made her laugh.

The lighting problem solved, the customary pre-performance frenzy erupted into which she was pitchforked. A tiny gingerbread figure was missing. Could Laure look for it?

It was lurking in one of the boxes in the kitchen. Milos snatched it from her and disappeared. Laure was left to tidy up and to ready the back-up marionettes in case there was a disaster during a performance.

She lifted a marionette called Marenka and pulled gently at her strings. ‘Good evening, dear Marenka,’ she said.

Marenka did duty as Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella, or any ingenue part.

‘Marenka is the young, innocent one who finds herself in puzzling situations but wins through because her innocence has the power to resolve,’ Milos had told her. ‘And this Marenka is a messenger. Look at the eyes.’ Marenka had one blue eye, one green. His voice was full of mischief. ‘See. It means there are different ways of seeing. But,’ he tapped his lips, ‘you must never say anything.’

‘Your life is a busy one, it seems,’ she told Marenka and could have sworn that the marionette’s mismatched eyes and full red mouth moved in response. Laure touched the painted cheek.

Marenka sighed and settled back onto her perch.

The marionettes’ clothing was stacked beside them, ready for quick deployment, including the Prince’s red-checked shirt for his peasant persona and his Pierrot costume. The Sleeping Beauty’s nightgown and the diminutive lace bridal veil used for wedding finales were folded alongside.

Enchanted, Laure held the veil up to the window. No expert, she could see that the lace itself was of the highest quality and so was the skill that had made it possible to include one of the smaller lace flowers at its centre.

‘Do you wish to see where it came from?’ asked a voice.

Laure turned to see Lucia in the doorway. She seemed out of sorts and spoiling for a confrontation.

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Laure. ‘And looks antique.’ Lucia frowned. ‘Old, I mean,’ Laure added.

Lucia crossed over to the cupboard in the corner. Opening the cupboard precipitated a shower of paint flakes onto the floor, which was dotted with them.

Lucia took down a box from the shelf. ‘Are you ready?’

The contents were shrouded in yellowing tissue paper, which Lucia peeled back. ‘My mother wore this, her mother before her, and her mother before that. If I marry, I will wear it. It’s old. Nobody knows how old.’ She took a piece of rag from the pile in the corner, dusted the table and lifted out the veil out for inspection.