Even with my eyes closed, my awareness followed him—as he bowled tennis balls at Marcus who sent them flying with an ancient cricket bat, ricocheting off the walls or further smashing what was left of the glass hanging from the frames of the greenhouses. Or as he lay sprawled out at the top of the lawn, his toes pointing down toward the lake, talking to Peter about something or other, his hands occasionally lifting into the air to describe a shape or emphasize a point.

There was a gossamer thread stretching between us. And, as time went on, I began to feel it even when I wasn’t at the manor. At night, for example, lying in my bed, I felt it still, fine as silk.

I’d known something like it once before, but that had been about fear, about knowing where Joe was so I could be as far away as possible.

I tuned in to it, the feeling between me and David. I blocked everything else out. At night, my mother had taken to shouting. Short bursts. Rarely intelligible. Sometimes I woke, sometimes the shouting entered my dreams. Waking, I would not know if it had been real. Neither awake nor asleep did I reply. I thought it could last forever like that. That I could punish her forever.

From out of a clear sky the drops came fat and far apart, then faster. Like a silvery applause, then drumming. I was caught out on the path by the lake, the rain cold, roiling the surface. I took off for the house yelling. A deluge. Above the sound of the rain, voices calling from one of the upper windows. Coming up toward the back of the manor, I slowed. What was the point; there was no getting wetter. The water in my shoes, in my ears, blurring vision.

Instinct? Premonition? I ducked left toward the greenhouses. David was sheltering under the bit of glass roof that was still intact.

“Nice and dry, are we?” But he couldn’t hear me over the rain. He said something I couldn’t hear either. The manor was only a looming shape. Water ran in sheets from the glass ceiling, a waterfall around us.

David was still talking, his eyes full of mischief. What was he saying? I took a step closer, and another. I brought my ear to his mouth, but he was only mouthing the words.

His body was warm and dry. I wrapped my chilly arms round him, my wet skin, my soaked T-shirt. I made him shiver. David’s dry cheek pressed against mine. I held David in my arms and he held me back. Wanting meeting wanting. The feeling of touching him this huge relief, like I’d been holding my breath for it.