Sadness weighed down every word of her response. ‘Beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. I feel giddy with it. It’s done something to my sense of identity, given me something I never knew was missing … but that something’s already out of my reach. It’s hard to accept.’ Her head came closer to his and he was aware of the smell of honey, maybe from her hair. ‘I’m bursting with so many questions my head hurts. Do I look like her? Ursula thinks I do.’ She looked at him so he could study her.

He looked into her face, trying to concentrate on answering rather than on how strikingly her features fitted together. ‘I can see a likeness in the shape of your mouth. And the eyes,’ he agreed.

‘But she’s kind of pink and freckly.’ She pulled out another print. Much more recent, it depicted a man in his late forties in a suit, maybe at a family wedding, his dark hair brushed into a man-bun. It was the Gerardo of today, though an exceptionally tidy version. ‘I get my colouring from him.’

Piero agreed. ‘The Mediterranean skin and hair has won out.’ He smiled. ‘English rose meets Latin looks. It’s a winning combination.’

She slid both prints back into her pocket, appearing deaf to the compliment. A catch in her voice, she said, ‘To suddenly have this knowledge is overwhelming. Obviously, I’d considered the possibility that Tori would turn out to be Vicky’s child and my mother but then all but dismissed it. Why on earth would Vicky pretend I was her daughter instead of simply telling me my real mum had died? Why would Gran and Pap perpetuate the lie? Surely I was entitled to know about the fabric of me? I am overwhelmed.’ She shook her head. ‘Yet, at the same time, hungry for answers.’ She got to her feet.

‘There’s no one you can ask?’ He rose too, accompanying her to the door and feeling the familiar oven-like blast as he opened it, the sun heading towards its noon-day height.