Act Two began with a peasant family toiling in a cornfield, singing a cheerful song. Mother and Father were unremarkable in sand-coloured dungarees. In contrast, their son had lustrous dark hair and eyes, a sensitive-looking mouth, blue trousers and a red-checked shirt.

The family were joined by villagers who – unlike the lazy courtiers – threw themselves into the toiling. The man in the waistcoat leant over and whispered to Laure in fluent but accented English. ‘If you would like to know, they’re singing about how joyful it is to work.’

‘That’s excellent,’ she whispered back, ‘but what’s that to do with Sleeping Beauty?’

The dark made this exchange oddly intimate.

‘It makes the point they’re not corrupt aristocrats. The parents are also telling how fortunate they are because their handsome son helps them out and keeps them cheerful.’

Was this a joke? The Kobes had warned about this sort of thing. Best not to take chances, she decided, glancing at her charges. Maria was chewing her hair and Jan was watching the stage with rapt attention. Since she had arrived in the country, she was ever more conscious of being ignorant, but she did know enough to know that she had to be careful.

There was a lull on stage and the curtains swished shut but the lights remained off.

He eased closer to Laure and she breathed in tobacco, fresh male sweat and a hint of lavender. ‘He believes in the power of collective work,’ he said, ‘and in the goodness of the State.’

She would have liked to have replied, oh, that fairy tale, but stopped herself.

He tapped his foot and she felt an energy pulse her way. ‘Don’t worry, it’s the music that matters, not the lyrics.’

His English was very good.

‘I’m Tomas,’ he said into her ear.

She could feel the warmth of his body, feel his breath on her cheek.

‘I’m Laure,’ she replied before she could stop herself.

A silence fell, as if each was turning over this new information in their minds.

Maria’s nose was running, and Laure searched her bag for a handkerchief. ‘Isn’t this fun?’ she said in French.

The proximity of their two bodies was unnerving.

‘Terrible-coloured curtains.’ She said the first thing that came into her head.

He shifted away. ‘Beggars can’t choose in this country.’

A gap appeared between them and, to her surprise, Laure minded.

‘Sorry.’ Out of the corner of her eye, she looked Tomas over. In addition to the waistcoat, he was wearing a battered pair of jeans and a cheesecloth shirt.

‘No need.’ He flashed her a smile and, suddenly, she was drawn into a complicity.