He was weeping. The old duke was weeping, his hands pressed in little fists against his eyes, tears gleaming like icicles off the whiskers on his chin. I opened my mouth to speak, and no words came. I stared down at the board, noticed that checkmate was a few moves away, and I felt no triumph at the revelation. Tiny sobs, barely more than hiccups, swallowed before they could begin, broke from him and were gasped back down–the shame, said his clenched fists, the shame.

Then the duke raised his head, eyes raw, and whispered, “Would you be my daughter? Would you be her… a little longer?”

I shook my head.

“Please. Be my daughter. Be who she ought to be.”

I reached out, laid my hands on his, pulled them gently down into his lap, spreading the fingers wide.

“No,” I replied, and jumped.

My old servant Josef swayed before my eyes. “Stay there,” I barked, and, tired bones creaking, face swollen and red from tears, I clambered to my feet. My legs ached more than I had imagined, a nerve twanged in my thigh, the duke too proud to carry the walking stick he clearly required.

The house was sleeping, the lamps turned down low as I climbed the stairs, limping, to Antonina’s door. A chubby matron sat outside, the key around her waist. I removed it without a sound, and she, snoring through her flared nose, did not stir. I slipped into the darkness of the room.

All furniture was gone. Any object by which Antonina might do herself harm had been removed. The windows were barred, the curtains drawn, but the smell of urine and faeces rose from the smeared floors, overpowering the soap and brine.

A figure stirred in the shadows, dressed in a torn white gown which offered as little warmth as it did dignity. I had looked in the mirror so often and seen that face and found it lovely; now as it rose, hair wild and eyes set in vengeance, I saw only a tempest of growling youth and hatred.

“Antonina,” I whispered. “Antonina,” I breathed again, and, one leg hardly accepting the project at all, I sank down on to my knees before her. “Forgive me,” I said. “Forgive me. I did you wrong. I have stolen time from you. I have taken your dignity, your name, your soul. I love you. Forgive me.”

She stirred from the shadows of the room, shuffled towards me, one unsteady foot at a time. I stayed where I was, head bowed, hands clasped before me. She stopped, her feet and bare lower legs filling my vision. I looked up. Her hair was tangled across her face, around her neck, as if she had tried to hang herself with her own locks. She spat in my face. I flinched, and didn’t move. She spat again. The liquid barely registered, already skin temperature, as it rolled down my forehead.

“I love you,” I said, and she shook her head, covered her ears. “I love you.” Reaching out, pressing my hands against her feet, rooting them in place. “I love you.”

Her hands turned to claws, dragging them down across her own face, and with a sudden lurch she pulled her feet free from my fingers. There were no words, no shaping except her rage, only heat and wetness on my face as she lowered her mouth to the level of my eyes and screamed, screamed and screamed until at last she had no more breath, and I caught her by the shoulders and pulled her close. She bit and scratched, tore at my beard, my face, her nails digging into my wrinkled skin as if she would pull it from my skull, but I let her fight until at last even that strength seemed to leave her, and I held her tight.

The noise could not have been ignored. The servants came, along with my lady wife, who stood in the door and gaped at the sight she beheld. I shook my head at her, sending her away, and held my daughter closer still, her breath hot in the tangle of mine, until morning.

Then I was someone else, and I was gone.

Chapter 77

A shaking awake, a starting. The sun is setting, and I have dreamed of Galileo.

Coyle is still asleep on the bed. I wake him as the last vestiges of daylight fade.

“We have to keep moving.”

“Where are we going?” he asks as I help him down to the car.

“Somewhere with trains.”

We reached Lyon shortly after 8 p.m.

Like many old cities in France, Lyon was possessed of beautiful houses pressed against a sluggish river, of a high-towered cathedral and ancient buried walls, and of suburbs of grand super-marchés, sprawling car parks and low-rise clothing outlets in iron-ceilinged industrial sheds. I left Coyle slumbering in the car park of one which advertised itself with the immortal words EAT THE BEST, LIVE THE BEST, SHOP THE BEST! and went inside with my plundered euros. A child giggled on a tiny fireman’s truck that rocked back and forth to the wailing of a siren. A small marquee, perfect, declared the billboard, for weddings and festive occasions, had been erected by the supermarket checkout counters for any casual shoppers looking for the ultimate spontaneous splurge. Cold steam drifted in grey wisps over fat vegetables, and the smell of yeast mixed with light jazz pumped from the bare pipes of the ceiling.

I bought bread, meat, water and an armful of men’s clothes, all baggier than required. The woman behind the checkout counter wore a peaked green hat and a bewildered expression as my shopping drifted down the conveyer belt towards her.

“For my brother,” I explained.

“He lets you buy trousers for him?”

“I’m good at dressing people.”

Coyle was still asleep in the car.

“Coyle.” I brushed his arm gingerly and, when he didn’t stir, ran the back of my fingers, gentle as a feather, across his cheek. His eyes opened, flickering in the darkness of the car, registered where he was and who he was with, and recoiled. I swallowed and said, “We’re in Lyon.”

“What’s in Lyon?”

“Public transport, mostly. Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Clean clothes. For you.”

“Not for you?”

“If I wanted to change, it’d be more than the clothes I wear. Try them. I think I remembered your size.”

He scowled but said, “Help me with the shirt?”

I turned the heater up, helped him fumble with buttons, peeled the ruined shirt away from his skin. Remarkably the dressing across his shoulder was neither saturated with blood nor falling away. By the faint light of the car park I felt around the edges of the wound and asked, “Does it burn?”

“No.”

“How’s the pain?”

“I’m coping. Your hands are cold.”

“My circulation isn’t fantastic. Here.” I rolled a T-shirt down over his head, helped him manoeuvre one arm at a time into the sleeves, tucked it down around his trousers. He sat still and straight, breath steady, watching my every move. My fingers brushed the scar across his belly and he didn’t flinch, but every fibre was tight, every muscle locked. “Fit OK?”

“Fine.”

“I bought you a jumper too. It’ll probably disintegrate in the first wash, but it’s warm and clean.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Why are you bothering?”

I sighed and turned away. “You’ve got blood on the upholstery,” I murmured. “Blood’s hard to clean.”

Roundabouts were the lock, patience the key, to any driver seeking to find their way into the middle of Lyon. I took us through one-way systems and down towards the river, where the hot young things of the city grew cold to the sound of 90s techno and noughties bass. I parked, illegally, in front of a grey stone church from whose porch the Virgin Mary gazed sorrowfully down at her straying flock and said, “We can’t use the car any more.”

“Why not?”

“Irena’s been gone more than eight hours. If she had a shift tonight, it would have started a few hours ago. The last person I wore–Max–I left him at the service station…”