Zen stretched out on the banquette in the kitchen. It was a comfortable spot, in close proximity to the red Aga stove. During the summer months Zen had it to herself. Unlike her mother and father, Zen liked extremes, so both very hot and very cold were to her liking.

The other reason she was so fond of this seat was that, when she lounged full-length along its needle-pointed surface, it made her invisible to anyone entering the kitchen. This morning she lay there in cotton pyjamas brought back specially for her from India. She rarely wore them in bed, yet loved to swan around in them watching videos in the evening, or in the morning before getting dressed proper—a habit she had picked up from Zeno, giving credence to his theory that a child was a mirror in which parents could view themselves.

Zen appeared to be in that unengaged state common to children when the mind is conscious but empty. But this morning this was not the case. She had noticed that the kitchen tap was dripping in perfect time with her pet starling’s cheeps from the window-sill. When the grandfather clock’s chimes joined the duet, Zen made it a quartet by tapping the downbeat on the underside of the breakfast table.

Zen loved the house in which she had been born—loved its familiar sounds and melodies, the rhythms of which she alone heard. She had retained the openness and warmth noticeable in children of acid-taking parents—the fragile innocence not fragmenting when teething and the formation of her little mind began. In their way, both parents acknowledged the sweetness of their child’s nature, with Zeno perhaps aware of it earlier than most fathers.

Zen didn’t see any difference between herself and the other kids at school, the majority of whom came from single-parent homes. She remained content in the knowledge that both her mum and dad would be there for her every morning, and always one of them to put her to bed at night. Although she knew of the disturbing currents that sometimes passed between them, she kept the sense of well-being that made her childhood a kingdom.

Zen’s little concerto ended, and she sat up as the wooden stairs creaked. It wasn’t the expected weight of her dad’s bare feet they were announcing, but the slippered sounds of her mother.

Prudence could not remember in all her years of marriage when she had woken before Zeno. It was something he often pointed out to their friends. “Prudence is not a morning person,” he would say, touching her arm or tousling her hair to let her know it wasn’t a criticism.

She watched him as he slept next to her, lying flat on his back with his head resting on a Japanese pillow, as still as a sarcophagus. For a moment she thought he was dead. She was very frightened of death, and held her breath until she saw the rise and fall of his chest. His hair was grey now, yet he still wore it long, in the same way as when they had first met. Ivanhoe, she thought the first time she saw him. Because his sleeping late was so unusual, she decided he must need the rest. She climbed out of bed without waking him.