Hair – good, lustrous hair – in plaits. Oscar Wilde’s hair: All her bright golden hair tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair fallen to dust. Felicite mouthed the creed, part of her article of faith. This child’s hair was golden, tarnished by a suggestion of redness. Pity about all that metal clamped in her mouth. Proof, if it were needed, that Mary Beth McBride was an American. Why did all American children have to have the output of a steel mill in their mouths? Never had an American child before. Have to get rid of the brace.

Felicite reached out, to stroke Mary’s cheek, but the girl jerked away although still without fear: it was an impatient, irritated movement. ‘Where are we going?’

‘I told you, an adventure.’

‘I want to go back to Brussels. Now!’

‘If you’re a naughty girl I’ll slap you.’ Part of the fun, the control. The best part. She’d make her cry. Plead. But not now. Too soon now. When she chose to. Maybe just the slightest correction.

‘No one slaps me!’

‘I might. Be careful.’ An idea was forming in Felicite’s mind, a new fantasy. It would give her the sort of absolute, supreme control she’d never had before. Her very own marionette show: a jumping, contorting cast of dozens, if not hundreds, performing to her will as she pulled the strings.

‘I have already told you my name is Mary Beth McBride and that my father is the American ambassador to Belgium!’

‘I heard you.’ So had Henri Cool. Felicite knew he wasn’t excited, as she was, sufficiently aroused for her voice to be fragile. He was scared, very scared, driving erratically out of Brussels until she’d warned him. He was driving erratically again now. ‘You’re going too fast,’ she said sharply. ‘What the hell’s wrong with you!’

He slowed, but only just to within the limit. ‘We’ve made a mistake. We’ve got to get… to do something about it.’