She remembered Manu’s words about leaving something of herself behind before she entered the Residence - she hadn’t done it, of course she hadn’t done it. Everything she had or ever was, was in India, in Jaipur, in this flat - and she couldn’t even sum it up.

‘I don’t know.’ Her American voice was strong, flat, matter-of-fact. She changed the subject. ‘Should we be friends?’

‘In India friendship is always easy.’

‘We might be allies.’

‘It is not a war.’

‘Not yet.’

‘Rest. It will not be so hard in the morning.’

‘But you don’t know me,’ said Quinn. ‘It might be worse.’

Manju turned and walked into a little kitchen, turning on a filter machine and bringing Quinn back a glass of water. ‘Drink.’

Quinn drank a little then rubbed the glass across her forehead as if cooling off, watching Manju who hadn’t taken her eyes off her.

‘The funny thing is I - ’ But before she could say what the funny thing was, the tiny ayah had arrived in the flat, with her baby, dispelling the magic.

Then Manu called up from the grass, confirming that he would collect everyone tomorrow.

Everything was winding down.

‘I promise to show you around,’ he called, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘I will try to find this man too.’

The red sunset was suddenly snuffed out in the flat for the sun had disappeared behind the hideous bus station and Manju turned on a brown silk lamp, bowed and left her.

Only the ayah remained, holding the unnamed baby, brushing sweet frangipani blossom across his brow.