The dirt stained the cloth that had been left for me and the water in the bowl looked as if it had been collected from a moat. I craved a warm scented bath, for my nails to be clean, for my hair to once again fall in a silky swathe. But it was not to be and I could see myself arriving before my father so travel-stained that I doubted he would recognize me. There was a chance he might not recognize me anyway as it had been three years since I had seen him. But worse, I had gleaned a subtext from Vasey’s words; that my father was not himself. He could have lost his mind with grief, he could be a soak, he could be anything but the man my mother had loved. I turned from the bowl to reach for clothes . . .