Bel put down her ink pen on the writing desk, stretched and looked out of the window. In the past few days, the trees below her had blossomed and were now covered in delicate pink flowers. When a breeze blew, they fell like scented rain onto the pavements, covering them in a layer of petals.

She looked at the clock on the desk and saw it was just past four in the afternoon. She had already written to Loen telling her of Italy and there was plenty of time to pen a third letter to Gustavo before changing for dinner. But Bel was disinclined to do so, for she found it so difficult to match the loving sentiments of the letters she received every few days from him.

Perhaps she would write later, she thought, as she stood up and wandered to the coffee table, absent-mindedly placing a bonbon in her mouth and chewing it. The apartment was quiet, although she could hear the hum of the boys’ voices, busy with their lessons next door in the dining room. Maria Georgiana and Maria Elisa were both taking their afternoon naps.

Heitor, she’d been told, would be back from Munich in time for dinner with the family, and Bel would be glad of his presence. She knew she’d have to contain her eagerness to remind him about Laurent and his wish to sculpt her for a day or so, but at least the appearance of Margarida Lopes de Almeida in the apartment had cheered her up. As Margarida and Maria Elisa’s mothers had chatted, the two girls had also talked. And in Margarida, Bel had sensed a kindred spirit.

‘Have you been to Montparnasse?’ Bel had asked quietly as they sat drinking tea.

‘Yes, many times,’ Margarida had whispered to her. ‘But you mustn’t tell anyone. We both know that Montparnasse is not the place for well-brought-up young ladies.’

Margarida had promised to come back and visit her again soon, and share details of the sculpture course she was taking at the Beaux-Arts school.

‘Surely Senhor da Silva Costa cannot disapprove, given that Professor Landowski would be one of your tutors?’ Margarida had added as she’d left. ‘À bientôt, Izabela.’

Heitor duly arrived home later that evening, looking grey and exhausted from his long journey. Bel listened as he expanded on the delights of Bavaria, the statue he’d seen in Germany. But he also told them ominous tales of the rise of the National Socialist German Workers’ party, under a man called Adolf Hitler.

‘Have you decided on who you will choose to make your sculpture of the Cristo?’ asked Bel, as the maid placed generous slices of tarte Tatin in front of each of them.

‘I have thought of nothing else on my long journey back to Paris,’ answered Heitor, ‘and I am still leaning towards Landowski, since his work displays such perfect artistic balance. It is modern, but has a simplicity and a timeless quality that I think would work well for the project.’