‘Petr, the children are fine,’ Eva interrupted from the doorway. The electric light from the corridor cast an unflattering light on her, making her even more sallow and washed out.

Petr glanced at his wife. ‘Laure, we have something to discuss with you.’

Eva cut him off and an exchange in Czech ensued. Petr answered, and then, switched back into French. ‘My company wishes me to remain here for the next year before returning to Paris. Jan and Maria…’ his voice gentled as it always did when referring to his children… ‘like you very much. You told us that you were taking a year off from your studies and we would like it if you stayed here with us for that time.’ He seemed aware that he had caught her off guard. ‘Please, think it over. Give us your answer in a few days.’

Later, Laure looked out from her bedroom window over the roofscape of the Malá Strana. Brympton was becoming a memory: the red-brick house that was home, the bus queue (the place to harvest the best gossip), the wind that whipped down from the fells.

Wasn’t it snakes who sloughed off skins? Laure had sloughed off that early part of her life and here she was: exposed, exhilarated, ready to grow a new one.

She spread her fingers over the window pane. Below, the hidden pulse of a grey, subdued city was beating, subterranean and unknown.

CHAPTER 11

Paris, today

BACK HOME IN TIME TO GET READY FOR A LONG-ARRANGED dinner with Simon in the Marais, Laure tossed her keys into the bowl by the door. They landed with the habitual clatter that threatened to crack the china one day.

It was unusually cool and fresh inside the flat and, for once, silence issued from the courtyard. Tugging at her dress zip, she headed for the bathroom, only to come to a halt. A stillness had been caught in the rooms. An element had changed. Or else something was missing.

Where was Kočka?

Her bag dropped to the floor. Laure launched herself into the sitting area and spotted at once that the window, which she had left on the half-latch, was now wide open. Kočka’s towel was spread over the sofa, ruffled and indented, indicating that, at some point, she had been there.

Turning in a quarter circle, she ran her eye in a systematic fashion up and down each quadrant before checking the next until she completed the circle.

Laure called ‘Kočka’, which was absurd as the cat had no idea of her name. Dropping to her knees, she peered under the sofa and chairs hoping to see the curved torso and a pair of world-weary, unblinking eyes. Next, she searched under the bed and through the kitchen. Finally, she hung out of the open window before running down to the courtyard.

Kočka had vanished.

She returned upstairs and stood in the centre of the room.