Something tugs my arm. A hand, pulling, a low voice whispering. My head is thick and dull and I struggle to come round. Cool air on my skin and the taste of salt.

‘Mummy.’

I open my eyes. Your face hangs beside me, level with the edge of the bed, pale and eerie in the half-light. Memory floods in. Venice. We’re in Venice. And Matt is there in bed beside me, breathing deeply.

I put out a hand and stroke your hair. ‘It’s night-time, Gracie. We need to go back to bed.’

‘But Mummy…’ Your voice is high and thrilled.

‘Sssh. Very quiet.’

I manage to slide my feet to the floor, then ease out the rest of my body and straighten up, pointed across to the connecting door.

You stare. ‘You haven’t got any clothes on.’

I put my fingers to my lips. The gilded edges of the chairs and wardrobe gleam. The breeze blowing in from the Lagoon is chilling. I steer you back to your own room and climb into the narrow bed, make room for you beside me. You put your cold feet on my legs to warm them and reach for your bear.

‘Did you have a bad dream?’

You shake your head. ‘She’s here.’ Your eyes are gleaming. ‘I can feel her.’

My stomach clenches. ‘Who?’

‘Catherine!’ You shake with excitement.

I stiffen. ‘What are you talking about?’

You still look pleased. ‘Catherine, silly Mummy. If Auntie Ella is her mummy, is she my sister?’

‘Auntie Ella hasn’t had children. You know that. Now go to sleep.’

I try to rest your head on my shoulder but you struggle, sit up. My tone has become cross and you look indignant.

‘But why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why are you saying that? I dreamed about her and then I woke up and I heard her. She’s here, Mummy. In Venice. Like she said.’ You stop, read my expression more closely. ‘What?’

‘I’m just tired, Gracie. You’ve been dreaming. That’s all. A dream. Now settle down and let’s go to sleep.’

‘But—’

‘Hush, Gracie. That’s enough.’

Your lip trembles and for a moment you look about to cry but you swallow it back and just frown. I wrap my arms more tightly round you and hold you against me, trying to calm my breathing. Your skin is hot. Maybe you’re going down with something. You lie still for a moment.

‘Mummy, will you miss me when you die?’

‘Gracie.’ I twist round and try to make out your face. ‘What kind of question’s that?’ Your eyes are anxious. I sigh. ‘I’m not going to die. Not for a long time.’

‘Not until you’re very old?’

‘Not until I’m very old. You’ll be grown up then.’

Your eyes fill. ‘I don’t want you to die.’

‘I’m not going to die.’ I hold you close, rock you in my arms, press my face against the top of your head and breathe in the clean scent of your hair. ‘It’s all right, Gracie. Mummy’s here. Go to sleep.’

Your limbs slacken and your breathing slowly deepens. I lie in the silence, trying to understand you. Waves of light, reflections from the stirring water down below, ripple across the shadowy ceiling.

As I finally fall backwards into sleep, I’m gripped by a strange sense of timelessness, of confusion, as if the solid lines that usually contain us are warping and shifting, leaving us drifting, any age and all ages, in a world without form.