‘Please, help yourself,’ he encouraged as he sat down.

I ate hungrily, impressed by his culinary prowess. I doubted if I could serve even a simple meal such as this with the same ease. In fact, I thought miserably, I hadn’t held a dinner party since I moved into the Pavilion in Geneva thirteen years ago.

‘So,’ said Floriano, when we’d finished eating and he had lit a cigarette, ‘did you discover all you needed to today?’

‘I discovered many things, but sadly, not the one thing I came to Brazil to find out.’

‘You’re referring to your mother, I presume?’

‘Yes. Yara said that wasn’t her story to tell.’

‘No. Especially if your mother is still alive,’ agreed Floriano.

‘Yara said when I asked her that she didn’t know. And I think I believe her.’

‘So . . .’ Floriano studied me with interest. ‘Where will you go from here?’

‘I’m not sure. I remember you saying that you could find no record of Cristina’s death on the register.’

‘No, I couldn’t, but for all we know she left Brazil and went abroad. Maia, would it be a trial for you to tell me the story that Yara told you today?’ he asked me. ‘I confess, having come this far, I’m eager to know.’

‘As long as you don’t do what you threatened and put it into one of your novels,’ I said, only half in jest.

‘I write fiction, Maia. This is reality, and you have my word.’

For the next half an hour, I briefed Floriano on as much as I could remember of what Yara had told me. Then I reached into my handbag and drew out the four envelopes she had given me when I was about to leave.

‘I haven’t opened these yet. Perhaps I’m nervous, like Gustavo was when he opened the letter he took from Loen,’ I conceded as I handed them to him. ‘Yara said they’re written from Laurent to Izabela during the time she was away nursing her mother at the fazenda. I want you to read one first.’

‘I’d be delighted,’ he said, his eyes lighting up as I’d known they would at discovering solid evidence of a piece of the historical puzzle.

I watched as he pulled the yellowing sheet of paper out of the first envelope and began to read. Eventually, he looked up at me, obviously moved by what he’d read. ‘Well, Monsieur Laurent Brouilly may have been a great sculptor, but judging from this, he had a way with words too.’ Floriano cocked his head to one side. ‘Why does anything written in French seem more poetic? Here,’ he said, handing it to me. ‘You read this, while I struggle on through the next one with the aid of my schoolboy language skills.’

‘Meu Deus, these letters almost bring tears to an old cynic’s eyes,’ he said a few minutes later, echoing my thoughts exactly.

‘I know. Even though I heard from Yara of the love Bel and Laurent shared, somehow reading the actual words brings it to life,’ I whispered. ‘In some ways, even though her story ended in such tragedy, I envy Bel,’ I admitted, pouring myself another glass of wine.