The garden is divided by hedges into a sequence of flower beds and lawns. A pocket paradise, Father calls it. We are on the terrace playing cricket. It is my turn to bat. You throw the ball into a high arch and as I wait for it to descend you suddenly abandon your post and start to run, shouting to Thoby and Adrian to follow you. I stand stock still watching the ball, then, prompted by the flare in your eyes, begin to run too. We arrive breathless and excited at the thickets of gooseberries and currants that grow at the back of the vegetable plot. It is only then that I hear Father. You put your finger to your lips, defying us to answer. You march toward the old fountain, bawling a poem at the top of your voice to drown him out. We fall in behind you, obedient soldiers. We are almost at the cracked stone basin when Father catches up with us. He questions you first. You stare him straight in the eye and tell him that you did not hear his call. Your conviction astounds me. Then you swing round and we read clearly your command to lie. Thoby, whose eyes never leave you, shakes his head when Father asks him and is rewarded with your smile. Adrian, delighted to be included in the game, giggles and refuses to speak. It is left to me to bear the brunt of Father’s fury.

“Did you not hear me?” Father’s cheeks are flushed from the exertion of chasing us across the garden. There is a glare of thunder in his eyes. You watch me intently for a moment. I gaze at the grass.

“Yes, Father,” I begin, “we did hear you. We are very sorry we disobeyed you.”

The look you turn on me is one of unmitigated scorn.

You are sitting on my bed, my amethyst necklace threaded through your fingers. You hold the stones up to the light.

“This one,” you say, as if the beads are a rosary, “is for Mother.” I gaze at the jewel’s violet sparkle. “Mother who loves the beautiful Nessa more than she has time to say.” Your words hit home and I grasp for the necklace. You swing it out of reach and continue your litany unperturbed. “Nessa the bountiful, Nessa the good. If only Mother wasn’t so busy.” Your tone is artful, wheedling, malicious. “Shall we see who else loves our sister?”

You dangle the beads and your voice tails to a seductive murmur.

“Ah, now who have we here? A poor, orphaned goat, bleating most piteously for her dolphin mother. Someone who would rather Ness didn’t scold quite so much, someone who wishes Ness would stop drawing and put her lovely arms round her and pet her.”