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stacked, more books haphazardly perched on top. He was dressed sombrely, his jacket closely buttoned and his white collar crisp, if slightly stained, above it.
    But he was not the puritan Mary denounced him for: Father would never allow himself to be part of a flock. Deborah felt a surge of love and admiration for him. His shoulder-length hair glinted gold by the firelight. Only a few strands of grey were visible and his pale face was still remarkably youthful. As always, Deborah was amazed by his eyes. Even though he had been blind for many, many years, his gaze appeared to be alert. He had trained his eyes to follow sounds almost precisely. Nobody who met him for the first time would be able to guess his blindness until he miscalculated and glanced slightly too far to the left or right, or until he let his guard down and his eyelids drooped. Deborah suspected embarrassment led him to such a pretence, for she knew Father hated being less than whole.
    His eyes rested on all of them in turn, assessing them. “Who is wearing silk?” he said.
    “I am, Father,” Mary said, stepping forward.
    “Mary? I heard it upon your entrance. You still have that ugly dog? I can smell him.”
    Mary had first found Max when he was an injured stray living off rubbish on the streets of London. The legacy of his hard years was one ear which had been bitten in half, and a patch of white fur missing from his back. But Mary loved the odd-looking creature as if he were her child.
    “Max has had a bath just a month ago,” she protested.
    “And Anne, I hear you still hobble like a cripple,” Father continued as if he hadn’t heard Mary.
    “I c-c-c—”
    “No, do not respond; I haven’t the patience. Deborah, I suppose your idiotic grandmother hasn’t bothered keeping up with your lessons. I expect you’ve forgotten all your languages. Your Hebrew?”
    “No, indeed, Father,” Deborah said, stepping forward quickly. “For even when Grandmamma hasn’t the time to help me —”
    “Hasn’t the wits, you mean,” Father mumbled.
    Deborah took a breath before continuing. “Indeed, Father, I have read every day in seven languages.”
    “Come then. Show me.”
    Deborah felt her face grow warm and her heart speed a little.
“Ro’lsi He’Horim V’Hinei Ro’lasim.”
    Father’s face was set in stone. “And what am I to do with that sentence? Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”
    Deborah felt the pit of her stomach hollow out.
    “Ro’lsi He’Horim V’Hinei Ro’lasim,”
Father said, correcting the pronunciation.
    “Thank you, Father. I am sorry.”
    “I hardly count it your fault. Liza, fetch Mrs Milton. It is time the girls met their new stepmother.”
    Liza hurried out, leaving the three of them standing there, still damp from the rain, their trunks at their feet.
    “Have you been well, Father?” Deborah asked. “It has been so long since we had word of you.”
    “I’ve been well enough,” he said, not managing even the ghost of a smile.
    “And your writing? Have you published anything of late?” Mary asked.
    He didn’t answer. This was one of his most unnerving habits: if he didn’t feel a question was worth answering, he simply remained silent. The girls stood without speaking for another moment or two before Liza returned with a young woman who had white-blonde hair, pale eyelashes and a bulbous nose.
    “I’m here, John,” she said.
    “Betty, meet my daughters.”
    The girls introduced themselves in turn, and Betty took their hands briefly, recoiling from Max’s attempt to lick her.
    “A dog!” she exclaimed. “Does he bite?”
    “No, he’s the gentlest, good boy,” Mary said.
    “I
hate
dogs,” she said.
    “Does not the youngest resemble me?” Father said.
    Betty fixed her gaze on Deborah. “Why, yes, John. The likeness is remarkable.”
    Deborah smiled. Her father had never actually seen her — he had been blind before she was born — but so many people had remarked upon the likeness