“It was only after the development of experimental chemistry—the forerunner of the patriarchal medical profession—that these ladies were burned as witches; the word ‘witch’ being Old English for ‘wise’,” he had said with the smile she knew frequently accompanied interesting titbits. Modern scientists were now confirming with specialised equipment what these ancients had always known. The rose, for example—with its five thousand components—combined with Indian sandalwood, would be perfect for her pillow; it would help her sleep and influence the limbic part of her brain so their child would be born with intelligence and beauty.

“Clary sage will give our child courage, and lavender in your inhalant will prevent you from getting anxious.” For Prudence, the relief from anxiety came with knowing that Zeno wanted to have the baby.

The double brass whistle on the kettle began its shrill moan, and Prudence was preparing to make her tea, when Zen said, “Oh, let it blow, Mum, I love that noise—it reminds me of the trains in the films.”

“It goes right through me,” she retorted, thinking how much Zen took after Zeno. One of the quaint theories Zeno held was that the sound of a steam whistle developed the pineal gland; he claimed he had successfully beaten his dependence on marijuana by listening to the sound of the kettle boiling every morning. She would often return to the house to find the kettle boiling like mad, and Zeno going about his business, seemingly oblivious.

“Would you like me to come shopping with you, Mum?” Zen asked, changing the subject.

“If you like,” said Prudence, getting down to making the tea. “I’ll go and put some clothes on.”

“Mum, put your Alaia on.”

“For shopping? It shows everything I’ve got.”

“It suits you, though. And I like it when people look at you.”

She meant she liked it when people look at them; Zen had yet to have her first period, but she did have a friend who had started, and she and her classmates had talked of little else but that and boys last term.

During such conversations, Prudence thought there might be some truth to her husband’s theory that she had been Zen’s child in a previous life. She went to put on her jeans.

Zeno brushed his teeth, trying to see how many of the sixteen herbs in his Ayurvedic toothpaste he could recognise, and then went to the attic room for his workout. He did his short exercise routine and then chose a spot on the carpet where the sun shone on his face. He sat cross-legged, the sun’s early rays warming his pituitary gland—or ‘recharging his battery’, as he called it. In spite of this, his concentration wandered, and he found himself inhaling the golden rays and mentally projecting them onto the image of the youth in his dream. Which was curious because, although Zeno’s ambivalence had been much speculated-upon during his early years, he had never been sexually drawn to males.

Zeno didn’t do his affirmations at all. This was partly because he knew he wasn’t concentrating very well; but mainly because he knew Zen was not in her hiding place. Her bedroom adjoined his quiet room and most mornings, as soon as she heard him enter to do his yoga exercises, she would give him a moment to sit and close his eyes, and then creep in and join him. She believed her hiding place—under the day bed with the carpet over it—to be completely secure, and Zeno was only too pleased to let her go on believing it. He often recited things he wanted her to hear. He had promised himself that if he ever had children he would teach them how to breathe properly. And although Prudence had doubts about the success of his plan, he felt Zen had already been learning for some time.