Lucy left Father Anselm and returned to the living room; then Robert and Victor followed her down the short, narrow passage back to the half-open door. She stood aside to let them pass. Victor walked closely behind Robert, one arm round his waist, a hand upon his shoulder: a faithful mentor guiding a nervous protege on to the stage at prize-giving – a boy frightened of applause, its roar, its power to dismantle what had been built in secret.
The door swung open at Robert’s touch. On entering, Victor covered his mouth, defeated, and said, ‘Agnes, je te present… ton fils…’
Lucy stood transfixed by a miracle greater than any of the old school stories – manna in the desert, water from a rock or the parting of any waves – Agnes slowly raised her head and neck fully off the pillow In answer to the call, her face turned towards her son. As Lucy backed away astounded, she heard what to many might have been a sigh, a sudden loud breathing, at most a gathering of soft. vowels, but to her it carried the unmistakable shape of a name not uttered in fifty years: ‘Robert!’