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hydrangeas. The road was narrow and winding, and round one comer they had to pull up sharply to make room for an ox-cart with high wicker sides, a harvest of straw piled so high it looked top-heavy. The wooden wheels with their sawmill screech made her cover her ears until the load was out of sight.
    Benita didn’t speak, but Vasco turned now and then to smile at Minella, as if making sure she was still there. Her face was bathed in perspiration and she unravelled herself from the blanket, feeling suffocated and anything but attractive. It was surprising he looked at her at all.
    A bit further on, Benita leaned forward and gave instructions to the driver. He turned off the road and on to an even narrower track, which didn’t please Vasco at all. He began to quarrel with Benita. Their voices rose, as deafening as the ox-cart wheels, but they probably sounded angrier than they were because she didn’t understand the language. Minella shrank into the corner of the car. When it stopped a few minutes later she was greatly relieved, and half afraid to look out of the window. But when she saw the view everything else was forgotten.
    They had arrived at a low cottage with a rust-red tiled roof and whitewashed walls, much like others she had seen, but bits had been added to make the shape irregular, and one wall was covered with vines. The garden was overflowing with azaleas and flaming canna lilies. Below it, at what must have been the bottom of a steep drop, was a lake, the water as clear as blue stained glass, and on the far side sheer cliffs climbed up towards the sky.
    ‘Oh, it’s so beautiful,’ Minella breathed. ‘Who lives here?’
    ‘I do,’ said Benita.
    Vasco was still angry for some reason and he jumped out of the car, slamming the door. But when he looked at Minella his expression softened and he gestured with his hands, his shoulders lifting with resignation.
    ‘I am not happy to leave you here,’ he said, ‘but I will carry you in, and then I must return to work.’
    She tossed the blanket aside and tested her legs. ‘I think I’d rather walk,’ she said.
    She was beginning to feel like a parcel being dumped first one place, then another, and she made a determined effort to climb out of the car and stand on the uneven path.
    ‘As you wish,’ said Vasco, a little stiffly. ‘I shall come to see you as soon as I think it is ... convenient. Goodbye.’
    Benita addressed him rapidly in Portuguese and he glanced at the cottage with a belligerent shake of his head before making off at an angle from the road. Benita sighed, gave the taxi driver some money, and turned to Minella.
    ‘He is a strange boy sometimes,’ she said. ‘I do not understand him.’
    Minella thought so, too, but the sun was beating down on her head and her eyes didn’t feel up to coping with the glare much longer, so she took a few tentative steps and was glad to find her legs returning to normal. It was a relief to reach the door.
    Inside it was cool. A fan revolved in the ceiling, and plain wooden furniture had an uncluttered look on the tiled floor where bright tapestry rugs were scattered. The roof extended out like a canopy from the main room, keeping out the sun and forming a patio with a glorious view of the lake. Somehow she wouldn’t have expected Benita to live in such a place.
    ‘Now,’ she said, making Minella sit in the most comfortable chair, ‘I will make coffee, and then you go to bed. Tomorrow you will be better, yes?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Minella, very definitely. ‘And I don’t want to go to bed.’
    Benita planted her feet in the middle of one of the rugs and put her hands on her hips. The doctor Henrique, he says you are to sleep today, and I must see that you do. Soon I will take you to the bedroom.’ Alone for several minutes, Minella looked round uneasily. She felt on edge. There was something wrong somewhere, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Too tidy, perhaps. She felt it even more when she