“Always the bloody same. Ever since you were old enough to speak. You’d get something in your head. You’d get obsessed, and as soon as you got it you’d lose interest.” Haig gestured toward the child. “This isn’t a damn investment scheme.”

“I know that. I know that.” As he glanced at his son, Gerard’s expression suggested a fear that no matter how much he risked, all he would ever get in return was encompassed right here in this dark, plump, lonely little boy. Quickly he turned back to the street. “I tried to teach her, but she didn’t seem able to retain a single word. So finally I hired this Indian chap to work with her full time. And he spent about an hour with her on the first day, and he comes to me, and he’s cringing as if he thinks I’m going to kill him. And he says, ‘Sahib, your…your woman.’

“‘My wife,’ I said.

“‘She’s…’”—Gerard acted like the Indian man, searching for the word, staring abjectly into Haig’s face—“‘she’s simple—like a simple person.’”

Haig stared open-mouthed for a moment. Then he began to laugh, doubled over—wheezing, body-racking laughs.

Moments later, the taxi stopped outside a three-story Georgian house that had somehow survived the bombing. Haig went up the stone steps, still wiping tears of laughter from his face. Gerard, holding the boy’s hand, remained on the pavement staring at the house.

After opening the door, Haig looked back and became serious. “Would have been better for you to see his body, see him buried.”

“Better for you,” Gerard said. “For Olly and me…I don’t think we could give him the satisfaction of dying.”

“Tati jana hai,” the boy said, whimpering.

“English, Raj.” Gerard pulled him up the steps. “And stop eating your hand.”

The second the door closed behind them all, a woman’s voice summoned Haig sharply from the next landing. Grimacing, Haig pointed Gerard toward the sitting room and hurried upstairs.

Gerard sat the boy next to him on the slightly worn green velvet couch, pulling his hand out of his mouth again.

“Tati jana hai.” The boy looked as if he was about to cry.

“You know English, Raj. Say, ‘My name is Rajiv.’ My…name—”

There was the sound of someone descending, and Gerard stood as a tiny, stiffly elegant woman entered, wielding the exquisite, intricate weapon of her face. She acted as if the boy weren’t there, not even glancing at him, and without a word or gesture of greeting sat at the very edge of the armchair that faced the couch. It was as if she had come in to interview a servant and had decided the instant she had seen Gerard that he wasn’t suitable.

“Brenna, you look—”

“How long do you intend to stay?”

“Five days. I’ll be out of your hair on Tuesday.”

“Back to India?”

“Off to Australia. A lucrative opportunity.”

“Really? What’s her name?”

“It’s minerals. It’s not interesting.”

“Are you here for money?”

“I’m here to visit my family—of which you are one.”