The high, violin note was held. The marionette reached up and jerked the string that controlled his leg out of its mooring, disabling it. In front of the audience, he crumpled slowly, a figure of pain. A wooden hand trembled as, again, he reached up and detached his second leg. Then one of his arms. Mutilated, shaking, he looked around at the audience.

No. She bit her lip to bite down on the involuntary cry.

With his remaining arm, the marionette pulled the string that held him to life, dismantled his own head and fell forward.

He was now a heap of marionette bones on the stage.

The entire thing only took a couple of minutes and the curtains were whisked shut. The suicide of a marionette? The defeat of a puppet master?

She felt sick. She felt terrified. She felt she had seen nothing so exquisite, so clever. So brutal. Or, so haunting.

Laure looked around. No one applauded. Some in the audience rearranged themselves on the bench, others talked to their companions. She wanted to shout out: but you have just seen genius.

Then she understood that the condition of watching what they had just seen was silence and those around were versed in subversion.

‘Are you OK?’

Tomas slid towards her on the bench. In answer, she held out both hands which were trembling with aftershock. He took them, held them and stilled their movement. After a few moments, he bent over and kissed them.

The curtains were parted and the overture to Don Giovanni struck up.

The following day, Laure knocked on the door of the dining room where Eva and Petr were eating supper and told them she accepted their offer to stay on in Prague.

‘Are you sure?’ Eva gave one of her disturbing laughs.

‘Yes, I have arranged for my mother to send over books from the reading list which will help me prepare for next year.’

Petr presided over this exchange. She couldn’t be sure but she thought she detected a hint of satisfaction in the dark eyes when she told them of her plans to work at the marionette theatre two nights a week. ‘If that’s OK with you,’ she added hastily.

Petr’s reply left a margin of doubt. ‘I strongly recommend that you do no such thing.’

He didn’t wish her to but, equally, he wasn’t going to stop her – which he could do. Why? Perhaps he really wanted her to work at the theatre so he could question her about what went on?

She reckoned she was becoming a good pupil, a fast learner in the ‘language’ of this country.

A drained-looking Eva pushed aside her plate. ‘You must know that you can’t count on us if there’s trouble.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’ll say goodnight.’