Grace went through a few of the goddesses that she could think of, but she either didn’t like the name or didn’t want her child associated with the goddess in question.

‘Not sure about goddesses. What about the Muses?’ she suggested instead. ‘Do any of those have pretty names?’

Charles stood up and reached for the relevant volume of the Encyclopædia Britannica. It was an ancient, leather-bound set that had been her mother’s and was horribly out of date, but some things, such as the Greek Muses, remained the same year on year, so there it sat on the shelves. Charles opened the book and ran his finger down the list. ‘Thalia?’

‘No,’ said Grace.

‘Calliope?’

‘How would anyone ever spell it?’

‘Terpsichore?’

‘Definitely not. I thought the Muses were supposed to be inspiring,’ said Grace with a weak smile.

‘How about Clio?’

Grace rolled the word round her mouth. She liked it, and it had the benefit of being short, which was good, bearing in mind the double-barrelled mouthful that her daughter would inherit as a surname, not to mention the ‘Honourable’ title that went with it.

‘Do you think people will muddle it up with Cleopatra?’ she asked.

‘Quite possibly. And she would probably have to spend her entire life spelling it. Maybe something else? Diana? Or how about the virtues? Patience?’

‘She wasn’t patient, though, was she, being born before her father could even get there.’ Grace raised her eyebrows, looking sideways at Charles before letting a tiny smile show him that she was joking, but they both knew that this was how it was going to be for a while until his absence at the birth stopped being so raw for her.

‘Faith? Charity?’ Charles continued.

‘I like Clio,’ said Grace.

‘Do you?’ asked Charles doubtfully. ‘How about royal names? Elizabeth? Victoria?’

‘No. I think it should be Clio,’ replied Grace evenly. ‘And I think I get to choose, don’t you? Seeing as you weren’t even there.’

Charles nodded, slightly reluctantly, and it was agreed.

The baby, Clio, was a speck of a thing, only five pounds ten ounces when she struggled into the world. The hospital had sent them home on day three, once the nurses were sure that she was feeding properly, but Clio looked comical in the clothes that Grace had chosen for her with long sausage skins of arms and legs unfilled by actual limbs dangling at each corner. Having not cried at her moment of birth, now she seemed unable to stop, but it wasn’t a full-lunged shout like Hector’s but more of a whine that wormed its way under Grace’s skin and twanged her already taut nerves. She knew that babies’ cries were designed to be impossible to ignore, but the sound that Clio made was more irritating than most.