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reputation as what?’ asked Milosh.
    Mother shook her head. ‘A marriage mercenary. Everyone can see it. No decent man will have her.’
    Milosh did not respond. We drove home in silence. As soon as we were inside the front door he ordered Klara and me to bed. While Klara slept, exhausted from the excitement and attention as only a nine-year-old could be, I listened to the muffled voices of Mother and Milosh arguing in the parlour. When the clock by my bed struck two, I could bear it no longer. I crept down the stairs. When I approached the parlour doors the words became clearer.
    ‘Never forget that I made you what you are!’ Mother told Milosh. ‘And that this house and my fortune will go to Adela and Klara.’
    Milosh’s answer was faint but I heard him leave the room by the other door. A few minutes later, a car started up in the street and sped away.
    My mother had done nothing wrong. She had merely reminded Milosh that her daughters came first. But her words had been spoken in a rage, and if she’d had the chance to think things through, she may not have voiced those sentiments so definitely.
    The strain between Milosh and Mother was conspicuous throughout the following week. We ate dismal meals together, Milosh sitting with a furrowed brow, Mother barely saying anything. When they did speak to each other, it was usually with an undertone of criticism.
    ‘Where are you going?’ Mother asked Milosh one afternoon as he hovered near the front door, pulling on his coat and checking his appearance in the hall mirror.
    ‘Where did you put my riding gloves?’ Milosh asked in return. He had indirectly answered the question and at the same time implied that Mother’s orderliness caused him great inconvenience.
    Klara, who had not seen the storm coming and was too young to understand paní Benova’s role in it, thought that the antagonism between Mother and Milosh was because of her performance at the soiree. She played peacemaker, embracing Mother at every opportunity to comfort her while trying at the same time to placate Milosh. One day, Milosh decided to criticise one of the younger maids by pointing out every fingermark on the walls, and Klara followed behind him with a sponge, ready to remove the stains he found.
    ‘It’s not your fault,’ I told her.
    I wanted to protect my sister from the hurts of the world. It was a mission Mother bestowed on me when she revealed the truth about her younger sister.
    ‘Emilie was gentle and kind—and a talented musician,’ Mother said, showing me the necklace she had kept as a memento: a gold chain from which a filigree medallion with a centre of blue crystal dangled. ‘But she was susceptible to slights. I was her older sister but I did not watch her closely enough. When she was nineteen, an infatuation with a scoundrel sent her spiralling downwards. Emilie started hearing voices. My father called the best doctors and she was confined to bed. But she thought her fingers were talking to her and cut them off. She was committed to an asylum but she died that winter of pneumonia.’
    I shivered. So the story about the rabid dog had been to hide Emilie’s insanity. The truth about my aunt’s death pained me.
    ‘After I am gone, you must protect Klara and keep her safe,’ Mother instructed me. ‘When I look at her delicate face I see Emilie all over again. Do not lose sight of Klara the way I lost sight of my sister.’
    But how does a sister—even a loving, devoted one—protect her charge from the facts of life? One morning I found Mister Rudolf floating upside down in his tank. As nothing in his diet or conditions had changed, I assumed his death was due to natural causes. I had no idea how to break the news to Klara. I considered buying another fish, but Klara was almost impossible to fool and it would be difficult to find a carp even half the size of Mister Rudolf so far from Christmas. I resigned myself to introducing her to a sad reality of life.
    ‘He didn’t