Laure wanted to. Very much. But Petr and Eva’s warnings remained fresh in her mind. Where was this line running between the political and the personal? She had no idea. At home, the last thing she ever did was to question the status quo. In Prague, she was being set daily puzzles.

A fork was a fork was a fork? Apparently not.

Escaping the afternoon torpor, she had ferried the children to the marionette theatre twice and the outings had been a success. Hot and restless, they stepped into a place where the make-believe was what mattered. Eyes wide, Maria gasped and buried her head in Laure’s lap. Jan shouted with laugher. Their reactions gave Laure enormous pleasure and she surrendered to the magic too.

This evening, however, she was going there on her own.

A minor source of frustration was her skimpy wardrobe, her one good thing being a black cotton dress patterned with pink roses. Eva frowned when Laure emerged from her room in it.

‘The neckline’s too low,’ she said.

Laure had bought the dress in Paris and, for her, its cut, seams and drape exuded Left Bank and she was proud of it. Recollecting how she had nerved herself to enter the Parisian department store and how the assistant’s superior manner filleted her confidence as she decanted her stockpile of savings onto the cask desk, she went to its defence. ‘I think it’s fine.’

Battle lines sprang up between Laure and Eva and, being younger, much prettier, firmer bodied, Laure emerged the victor. It was a shabby victory. Of course it was, and she made an effort to damp down its satisfactions.

‘If you get us into trouble, I’ll never forgive you. The city is not safe at night.’ Eva was tight-lipped and her accented French wobbled.

She was seeping unhappiness like water from a sponge. Laure’s conscience stirred and she made an overture. ‘You must be pleased to be back home with your family and friends.’ Not that Laure was aware of any family or friends visiting the apartment.

‘Home,’ echoed Eva, as if the concept was an unfamiliar one. ‘Yes, of course.’

Laure fiddled with her neckline. ‘Eva, are you content if I stay on? Would you prefer someone who lives in Prague to look after the children?’

‘No… no.’ Eva’s response was genuine. ‘The children know you. They like you. Nothing’s more important. We’ve been given special permission to bring you with us.’ In a gesture that was becoming habitual, she clutched at her midriff. ‘I need help. You do understand?’

The doubts arrived. Should she escape the puzzling family setup and the apartment filled with plastic chairs and what, she now suspected, was looted china and glass? Should she take the chance to escape a city where, it seemed, facts only became facts if they were approved of by the authorities?