Effie didn’t feel like making up the bed in the attic room. They could sleep in the yellow room—or wherever he wanted, it didn’t matter. The room was fine. While she was in the bathroom washing up, Henry changed into his pajama bottoms and T-shirt and got under the covers. The bed was comfortable, and the thick duvet enclosed him safely. They would put this all behind them. They would forget it had ever happened. He could feel it receding already. For the first time since they had arrived, he was looking forward to going home.

Effie returned in her slip, her face shiny with cold cream, and knelt at the side of the bed to pray. She didn’t do this regularly, as it had turned out—the last time she’d done it had been their first night at Clara’s—and what made her do it, or not do it, was still a mystery to him. When she was finished she got in under the covers, and before turning out the light she lay there looking at him. Her expression, it seemed to him, was full of remorse, her eyes big and dark.

“I love you, Henry,” she said softly, and he felt the sting of tears. She’d never said those words to him without irony. He told her he loved her too, and kissed her, and she turned out the light, and they settled down to sleep.

He drifted off soon after, feeling depleted but warm.

And was startled awake, only seconds later, it seemed, by a hand pushing at his shoulder, and out of the dark came a familiar voice, clear and smooth: “Henry, my love? Did you forget about me?”

Thirteen

He’d swept her out of the bedroom and down the stairs before he was fully conscious what he was doing. Effie hadn’t stirred. He didn’t think she had.

“I waited for you,” Alma said as she followed him, and he tried to shush her. “At the house, like we planned. I watched the sun rise. I slept on the couch all afternoon—you would have seen me there. You never came.”

When they reached the den he turned and whispered, “What are you doing here? Are you out of your fucking mind?” He couldn’t see her in the dark.

“Why didn’t you come?”

“But”—he could barely speak, he was so bewildered—“what are you doing here?”

“You were supposed to meet me,” she said, making no effort to conceal her voice. “Did you forget? I’ve been waiting for you.”

He took her arm—she was wearing her cardigan—and pulled her through the dining room and kitchen and out onto the back porch.

“Why didn’t you come?” she asked again. She was a shadow in the dark. It was cold out, and the stars were dazzling.

“I thought you went to New York,” he said.