A succession of images sifted through her mind, as slow and luxurious as if she had all the time in the world. Brympton in the winter sunlight. Her arrival at Paris’s Gare du Nord. The bedroom at the chata. Tomas half-naked and bruised, holding Kočka in his arms.

He had been lying.

This time, the pain which overwhelmed her was of a different order and it was one she didn’t think she was capable of bearing. Or the revulsion that came with it.

Her brain shut down. Logic and reason vanished. In their place was jealousy of this unknown woman and a burning, vengeful anger.

Petr was observing her reactions. ‘You’re so young, Laure.’ His voice softened. ‘When I saw you in that room in the Bartolomĕjská, I was agonized that all your sweetness and trust might have been beaten out of you.’

The world as she had perceived it had taken on a new shape. The certainties had gone. All she knew now was that she must flee this city of demons and repression and lies and pretence before she lost the ability to work out what was right or wrong, true or false. ‘I’ve been offered a job in…’ Her lips were too dry to articulate the words and she tried again. ‘They want me to start as soon as…’

‘Early next week,’ intervened Petr, smoothly.

She struggled to make sense. ‘I thought it best, after what happened after the concert. It’s best for you and the family.’

‘So, perhaps you are going to Paris by train?’

Silence.

‘Berlin? I’m told you can look over the Wall in places from the West.’

He was assessing, weighing, measuring. Hints, probabilities, certainties, piecing them together with a mind trained to do so.

Silence.

‘Vienna then?’

She dug a finger into her palm. It was only a tiny gesture but he noted it.

He pushed the paper under her nose.

Tomas is married?

Anguish and jealousy goaded her on into a dark place. ‘Yes,’ she said, after a moment.

Petr got to his feet. ‘I’d better go and talk to my wife,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you sit down again and finish the brandy?’ He went out of the room.

Seconds later, he returned. ‘Laure…’ He looked almost grief-stricken. ‘The marriage certificate was forged.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s an old trick. I was taught it a long time ago.’

Mouth dry and tasting of vomit, she looked up at him. ‘What…?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

He disappeared.

She dashed for the wastepaper basket in the corner and was sick for the second time, regurgitating bitter, bitter guilt.

She had been duped and, idiot and unbeliever, she had fallen for it.

She heard the bedroom shut and their voices strike up behind it. Her hand holding the glass shook as she raised it to her lips and drained the lot which left her coughing and swimmy-eyed.