I decide to have the baby at home. As Christmas approaches I make my plans. The war is over, and though the shortages continue, I find time to work on the house. I scrub the floorboards in my bedroom and paint them a rich golden brown, the color of honey. I dye new curtains and a cover for my bed. I paint the walls and ceiling and door. My waters break at five o’clock on Christmas Eve. Bunny cycles for the doctor while Duncan helps me to my room. It is an easy birth. I steady myself against the mantel of the fireplace between contractions. I ask to hold the baby immediately she is born. The doctor nods his consent. The midwife wraps her in a clean towel and hands her to me. Her fingers flex in tiny star shapes. I cradle my new daughter tight against my breast then set her in her father’s arms.

Later that day we exchange our presents. Bunny peers at the baby, exclaiming with delight when she opens her eyes. He quips that as soon as she is old enough he will marry her. As he reaches into the crib to lift her, I am seized with a fear that he will steal her too.

I am working on a woodcut. My daughter sleeps in her crib by my side. I look at her every few minutes, marveling at her beauty. I am carving my picture of the bathtub. This time, I place my figure directly in front of it. The woman’s eyes remain lowered to the floor; her hands are still fastening her plait, but now her body curves into the ample roundness of the bath. There are just two flowers in the vase in the arched window. Though they bend in opposite directions, they are in perfect symmetry. I try out names for my daughter while I work: Clarissa, Rachel, Helen. I cannot think of one good enough for her. She is a heaven-sent angel, the answer to a prayer. I fashion her future as I cut into the wood. She will be a great artist. She will succeed where I have failed. I sculpt my figure’s haunches until they are as voluptuous as the maternal contours of the bath.

8

“THANK YOU FOR COMING.”

I follow Leonard into the sitting room, where we install ourselves on either side of the fireplace.

“How long has she been unwell?” I find it hard to hide my annoyance; it would have been so much easier to care for Angelica if I had been able to leave Julian and Quentin with you as we had arranged. Leonard sighs.

“She’s been having headaches for some time, but it’s this recent bout of flu that has laid her low. I felt I had to ask you to collect the boys.”

“I see. Are they in the garden?”

“Yes.”