This was Sadie Riley, the first time I saw her in the flesh. Back then, I hadn’t thought she’d really matter. I hadn’t realised rumour and suspicion and stories lick into your life, a spark into kindling, taking over and destroying everything. A suspicion of Caleb, crudely ignited, grew into a fire. I ignored her and concentrated on Caleb. ‘You’ll be okay,’ I said. ‘We’ll get you through this.’ Then I was on the phone to Genevieve, asking what to do next.

‘You said they mentioned a urine test?’ she demanded. ‘Do what you need to do to get that evidence lost.’

ONE YEAR AFTER THE BRUNTON FIRE

Bushfires can be described in the language of stories, each one with an inciting incident, each one building to a climax. But fire isn’t a story – fire destroys stories. Fire is stronger than people who think they can control it. The ancients Marco and I studied understood this, and also that elements could be made to change, although such transformations came at great cost. Earth could erupt into fire and water could convert fire back into earth. There are some skills that humans, creatures of ashes, should not possess. Yet we can’t resist trying to invent them, to make our own stories. Sometimes we call these stories history and pretend everything is deliberate. But not every fire has an arsonist. Smoke signals can be distorted.

When I once laughingly accused Marco of being a latter-day colonialist (keeping recovered bones – someone’s ancestor – or stone engravings – someone’s ancestor’s work – in a museum), he said: ‘Italy asks me to do this work. Rome wasn’t dug up in a day.’

Marco read about my court testimony in newspaper reports, and reached out over Skype. ‘Let’s talk in person? We can meet in London at my conference next week.’

I was tempted. London was as famous for freezing as for burning. Melbourne, like Rome, only burned. But I also wanted to stay here. I didn’t want Marco to stop imagining I was eighteen. ‘I’m writing Caleb’s story. I want it remembered properly.’

‘All right. Come to Rome, next month. Leave Caleb with his dad. Talk to me here.’

‘I have a job. I have students. They’ve had so many changes…’ I’m tempted and I knew temptation sounded in the tone of my voice, my frequent pauses.

‘Students have new teachers every year.’

‘I know.’

‘So, come.’

‘I just… don’t know. Caleb might come home. He might want to understand his history. I’ll be ready to explain when he’s ready to listen.’