Silently, they gazed at the stack of envelopes. Tentatively, Zia reached for the topmost and unfolded it, recognising the bold, black, sprawling handwriting. ‘From Gran.’ She swallowed a lump at the sight of the flimsy air mail writing paper that had winged its way from near Valencia in Spain.

14th December 1991

Dear Vicky,

How are you? How is Zia-Lucia? Are you coping with her?

Zia paused. ‘It’s a bit weird to see baby me being discussed.’ She returned to the letter.

Your father and I think we’d better come back to live in England and give you and Zia-Lucia some support. We can’t imagine how you feel with poor darling Tori gone. How terrible it all is. Oh, darlingest darling, we grieve for you and with you! You’ve always gone your way but won’t you let us help you this time? Can’t we weather this together? We all loved Tori.

Zia swallowed. ‘Gran used to call me “darlingest darling”, too.’ Had she loved the unknown Tori enough to call her the same? It gave her a twirly feeling to think it.

Ursula interrupted with the eagerness she usually reserved for solving sudoku. ‘But 1991’s the year the second Victoria died. Tori must be her – it’s another short name for Victoria. I’ll bet your mum was known as Vicky and this younger Victoria as Tori.’

Zia considered, stretching cramped legs beneath the table. ‘Makes sense. Obviously, she was in touch with Mum at the time of her death and Gran and Pap too. That doesn’t work with the adopted-baby idea – unless she’d traced Mum, of course, and either the adoptive parents hadn’t given her a new name or she wasn’t using it.’

Ursula looked intrigued. ‘I wonder who her birth father was.’

Zia tried to laugh but it caught in her throat. ‘My past seems littered with mystery fathers.’ She started on the next letter. The handwriting was different. ‘Pap’s written this one.’ They read it together.

3rd January 1992

Dear Vicky,

From your last letter it seems you don’t want Mum and me to come back but we are worried about you. I’m going to be honest – we think what you’re doing is crazy and sooner or later you’ll have a lot of explaining to do. It’s not too late to reconsider.

Zia skimmed the rest of the letter, ‘Then there’s a load of stuff about Pap’s garden and Gran teaching Spanish to new ex-pats. But what do you think Mum would’ve had to explain about? It’s like one of those games where you get clues in fragments.’

The next letter was dated a couple of weeks later and Gran had taken up her pen again, beginning with anxious enquiries.