‘I see.’

‘However, there was one thing that she was able to provide, Maia. In that drawer’ – Beatriz pointed to it – ‘you‘ll find an envelope. The orphanage took a photograph of each baby that arrived in it for their records. As you‘d gone and the file was closed, my friend asked the director of the orphanage if she could bring it to me as a keepsake. There, take a look for yourself.’

I went to the drawer and pulled out the envelope that sat inside it. Drawing out the photograph, I saw a blurred black-and-white image of a baby with a shock of dark hair and huge, startled eyes. I‘d seen a number of photographs of myself lying contentedly in Marina‘s arms or being cradled by Pa Salt when I was tiny. And I knew without a doubt that this photograph was of me.

‘So you never discovered who it was that adopted me?’ I asked Beatriz.

‘No. Although I hope you can imagine how hard we tried to. We explained to the director that we were your grandparents and had been intending to adopt you and bring you up as our own child. She asked what proof we had that you were even our grandchild. Sadly there was none,’ Beatriz said, sighing deeply, ‘because the birth mother was unnamed on your file. And even when I showed her a photograph of myself wearing the moonstone necklace, she said it didn‘t count as proof in the eyes of the law. I asked her – no, begged her – to let me at least make contact through her with the family who had taken you. She refused, saying that it had been proven disruptive in the past to put relatives of the old family in touch with the new. And their policy was firm and unbreakable. My dear,’ she sighed, ‘despite all our efforts, we came to a dead end.’

‘Thank you for trying,’ I whispered.

‘Maia, you must believe me when I say that if your adoptive father had not arrived as promptly as he did, both of our lives would have been very different.’

I tucked the photograph back into the envelope for want of something to concentrate on. Standing up, I moved to put it back into the drawer.

‘No, my dear, you keep it. I‘ve no need of it now. I have my real, living, breathing granddaughter standing in front of me.’

I saw Beatriz wince in pain and knew that my time was running out.

‘So, you never discovered who my real father was?’ I asked her.

‘No.’

‘And Cristina? Do you know what became of her?’

‘Sadly, as I said, I never heard a word from her again. So I‘m afraid I can‘t even tell you whether she‘s dead or alive. After she took you to the orphanage, she simply disappeared into thin air. As many did in Rio in those days,’ Beatriz sighed. ‘Perhaps, if you wanted to pursue it further, you might have more luck. These days, I know the authorities are more open to helping those in search of a long-lost parent. My instinct, if a mother really does have such a thing, is that Cristina is dead. Those on a mission to destroy themselves usually succeed. Yet it still breaks my heart to think about her.’