‘What are they?’ Bel asked, fascinated.

‘It’s when you try to contact the dead,’ clarified Margarida. ‘Not something that would ever appeal to me,’ she said with a shudder.

‘He’s also indulging in group hypnosis sessions, to see if it’s possible to reach the subconscious mind. Now that I would be interested in. The human psyche fascinates me almost as much as its physical form.’ Laurent glanced at Bel. ‘As you might have realised this morning, mademoiselle. Now, it is time to return to work. While I place a chair in the corner of the atelier where the light is best, I suggest you take a short walk in the gardens. For once I begin, I shall insist you are still, like the stone I will work from.’

‘I shall accompany her, Monsieur Brouilly. I too need to breathe some fresh air,’ said Margarida. ‘Come, Izabela.’

The two women stood up, left the atelier and went into the gardens, where they stood by the voluptuously scented beds of lavender.

‘The only sound I can hear is the buzzing of the bees that are stealing the nectar.’ Margarida sighed in pleasure as she took Bel’s arm and crooked her own into it. ‘Are you sure you are all right, Izabela?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Bel confirmed, her tension calmed by the lunchtime wine.

‘Well, just promise me you won’t allow him to make you feel uncomfortable.’

‘I won’t,’ Bel reassured her. ‘Isn’t it strange?’ she said as they walked slowly along the edge of the garden, enclosed by a neatly clipped cypress hedge. ‘Even though, with its wealth of flora and fauna, Brazil has the same beauty, the energy and atmosphere in France is so different. At home, I find it difficult to be contemplative, to be at peace with myself. And yet here, even in the heart of Montparnasse, I am somehow able to do so. To see myself clearly.’ Margarida shrugged. ‘Now, we must return to the atelier so that Monsieur Brouilly can begin his masterpiece.’

Three hours later, in the car on the way home, Bel found she was exhausted. For what had felt like an eternity, she had sat on a chair, her hands on her knees, her fingers displayed exactly as Laurent had placed them.

Rather than feeling sensuous, she had felt like a maiden aunt, whose likeness was to be captured in sepia tones with a camera. Now her back ached from sitting upright for so long and her neck felt stiff. And if she’d dared to even twitch one of her fingers to move it to a more comfortable position, Laurent noticed. He would stand up from behind the chunk of stone he was working with, and move towards her to replace the hand exactly as he’d originally positioned it.

‘Izabela, wake up, querida. We’ve arrived at your apartment.’

She jumped, embarrassed that Margarida had caught her dozing.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, as she roused herself and the chauffeur opened the car door. ‘I didn’t realise it would be so tiring.’