Milos detached her grip from the glass, set it down and took her hand. His was rough from years of labour but, as it had always done, felt safe in hers. She knew him of old and he knew her. It was enough.

‘Yes. But she had her reasons. You must forgive her.’

‘Is it Lucia asking for forgiveness?’

‘No, I do. She’s my wife.’ The new teeth were disconcerting, but she was glad Milos had had them fixed. ‘I am asking for her. Does she have it?’

She thought of her own Gethsemane. The dry earth of regret. The guilt. The punishment of never living through a bright, golden day without it.

Her grip tightened on his. ‘Yes.’

‘Then you must visit us in Prague and, maybe, we could sort out things between you two?’ His smile faded. ‘We could visit places and pay… our respects.’

‘Yes,’ said Laure. ‘I would like that. Very much.’

Afterwards, they walked along the banks of the Canal Saint-Martin. It was now almost dark. The expensive boutiques were lit up. Someone had strung fairy lights across one of the iron-work bridges which only reached halfway across. The rough sleepers were cooking up meals where they could and securing their tents.

The water slapped companionably against the banks.

Laure stopped. ‘And Tomas?’ she asked, brittle with despair and dread.

Milos walked on a pace, turned and came back. ‘Tomas is dead. They killed him, one way or another. You must know that.’

She was silent for a long time then she sighed.

‘Always a tiny bit of me…’ she said. ‘Hoped. Prayed. That he had survived. I gave away the escape route because I was so angry. I’d been told that Tomas had married an American. I realised it was a lie but I couldn’t unsay it.’

‘Which American?’ asked Milos. She told him and he shook his head. ‘You’re right. It was lies, Laure.’

‘He warned me not to believe what they said about him. I failed.’ She looked directly at Milos. ‘In that crucial moment, I lost faith and it was enough.’

‘But Lucia put the goons onto you,’ said Milos, ‘which resulted in the raid. Think about it. It was the system that exploited what we felt, what we did. A chain of small repressions, making a big one. Most people were guilty of tiny betrayals. It was the price of existing.’ He spoke urgently. ‘Laure, look at me. To survive, we have to believe that.’

‘Can I forgive myself?’

‘We have to.’

She thought about Tomas’s last moments. In fear and, without doubt, in pain. She hoped he had kept his faith. Please could he have kept his faith in his rightness. Maybe, he summoned music to help him.

Maybe, maybe, towards the end he had thought of her once or twice?