CLUTCHING her daughter and hollowed out by impending loss, Lana blamed herself. Her first mistake, eighteen years earlier, had been putting a world globe in Ada’s room, its warm light drawing the eye, irradiating Earth in an inviting glow. After that, well, where to begin—with her romanticised retellings of youthful adventures overseas? With the listing yellow towers of National Geographic magazines in the study? With bookshelves brimming with Newbys, Chatwins, Brysons? With a radio hard-wired to the BBC World Service? God, she’d all but dragged Ada here, to this ugly departures lounge. What a fool she’d been.