Said Rosalind, “You two didn’t show much concern over Rob’s death.” “’Lind,” said Ophelia, “your stepson was a shit.” “Why did Cormac give him a job then?” “Because he wanted a favour from your Derek, something political. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Or your son’s.” Rosalind did not question that. She and Juliet nodded understandingly; they were, after all, Roumanian, though long removed. They had arrived in Australia when Juliet was six months old, Rosalind five years old and Ophelia ten, but there were centuries of intrigue in their blood. Their mother, Ileana, had come of a family noted for its political chicanery; she had died of sunstroke six months after her arrival in Sydney, sad to depart but happy in the thought that her daughters would grow up in a community where the politicians of the time were as buyable as those back home. She had been ten years older than her sculptor husband, Adam, and, though not expecting to go so soon, had told him she would die before he turned to chasing younger women.
