‘Yes, professor.’

Red-faced, Laurent left the atelier, berating himself for allowing this to happen, and was put to bed by Landowski’s ever-understanding wife, Amélie.

He woke four hours later, took a cold shower and ate a bowl of soup that Amélie offered him, arriving back at the atelier much restored.

‘That is better,’ nodded the professor, sweeping his eyes over Laurent. ‘Now you are fit to work.’

The giant hand now had an index finger, and the boy still sat where Laurent had last seen him on the stool, intently watching Landowski work.

‘So, we start now on the ring finger. There is the model I’m working from.’ Landowski pointed to one of the moulds Laurent had taken of Izabela’s and Margarida’s hands.

Walking towards it, Laurent asked, ‘Which set of hands did you choose in the end?’

‘I have no idea, for they were unnamed. And perhaps that is how it should be. After all, they are Christ’s hands and only His.’

Laurent studied the mould, looking for the telltale crack in the little finger that he’d glued carefully back together when he’d removed it from Mademoiselle Margarida’s hand. There was no such fissure.

With a jolt of pleasure, Laurent knew without doubt that Landowski had chosen Izabela’s hands to be those of the Rio Christ.

32

Paty do Alferes, Brazil, November 1928

In the two weeks that Bel had been up in the mountains at the fazenda, she had watched her mother’s strength begin to return. Whether it was the clean mountain air, the beauty and serenity of the setting, or Fabiana’s nursing, Bel didn’t know. But Carla had put on a little weight and was able to find the energy to take short walks around the glorious gardens unsupported.

Everything they ate was grown either on the farm itself, or sourced from the surrounding district: meat from their cattle, cheese and milk from the goats on the lower land, and vegetables and fruit from the local farms. The region was famous for the production of tomatoes and Fabiana swore by their healing qualities, chopping, mincing and sieving them into all manner of foodstuffs.

And Bel began to feel that she too was healing. Waking up every morning, donning her bathing costume and taking a refreshing dip in the lake before sitting down to a breakfast of the delicious pound cake Fabiana made was therapeutic. There was a waterfall on their land, where the fresh water fell in a cascade from the mountains above. Bel would often sit under it, staring out at the mountains, feeling the icy-cold ripples massage her back.

During the day, if her mother was resting, she would lie on the cool veranda and read, preferring books on philosophy and the art of being at peace with oneself, rather than the romantic stories she’d once favoured when she was younger. She understood now that they were fiction, and that in real life love did not always have a happy ending.

Most afternoons, she would saddle Loty and ride up the rough tracks and across the slopes, coming to rest on a hilltop, where horse and rider would pause and take a moment to enjoy the marvellous view.