I know who you are . . .

My fingers touched the moonstone necklace. All I could guess was that it had come with me as some kind of keep-sake, perhaps from my mother, when Pa Salt had adopted me as a baby. He’d told me when he’d given it to me that there was an interesting story behind it. Perhaps he’d been subtly prompting me to ask him one day what it was; maybe at the time he hadn’t wished to unsettle me by speaking of a direct connection to my past. He’d been waiting for me to ask. And I wished now with all my heart that I had.

For the next hour, I ploughed through the letters – of which there must have been over thirty – and set them in a pile in date order.

I was itching to begin reading the immaculate, beautifully scripted writing. My mobile rang, and I heard Floriano’s voice on the other end of the line full of excitement.

‘Maia, I have news. Can I come over and see you in an hour?’

‘Would you mind if we met tomorrow morning? I think I may have picked up a stomach bug,’ I lied guiltily, wanting the rest of the day to read the letters.

‘Tomorrow at ten then?’

‘Yes. I’m sure I’ll be okay by then.’

‘If there’s anything you need, Maia, please call me.’

‘I will, thank you.’

‘No problem. Feel better,’ he said.

Switching off my mobile, I called down to room service to bring me two bottles of water and a club sandwich. Once they had arrived and I had distractedly wolfed down the contents, I picked up the first letter with trembling fingers and began to read . . .

Izabela

Rio de Janeiro

November 1927

13

Izabela Rosa Bonifacio was stirred from sleep by the scratchy pattering of tiny feet across the tiled floor. Sitting bolt upright, she looked down from her bed and saw the sagui staring up at her. In its hands – miniature, hairy facsimiles of her own – the monkey was holding her hairbrush. Bel couldn’t help but let out a giggle as the sagui continued to stare at her, its liquid black eyes pleading with her to allow it to escape with its new plaything.

‘So, you wish to brush your hair?’ she asked it as she slithered forwards on her stomach to the bottom of the bed. ‘Please’ – she held out a hand towards the monkey – ‘give it back to me. It’s mine, and Mãe will be so cross if you steal it from me.’

The monkey inclined its head towards its escape route, and as Bel’s long, slim fingers reached out to swipe the hair-brush back, the creature leapt daintily onto the windowsill and disappeared from view.

With a sigh, Bel fell back onto the bed, knowing she’d receive yet another lecture from her parents about keeping her shutters closed at night for this very reason. The hair-brush had been mother-of-pearl, a christening gift from her paternal grandmother, and as she’d told the monkey, her mother would not be amused. Bel wriggled back upwards and laid her head on the pillows, harbouring the vain hope that the sagui might drop the brush in the garden in its flight back to its jungle home on the mountainside behind the house.