I looked pretty to him. When he said it I believed him and wasn’t surprised but wasn’t flattered, either, because it hadn’t been a compliment, exactly. He was simply making an observation. Telling me what he saw. But it startled me, because I realized something: I already knew it. I knew exactly how my skin would be glowing in that light, the way shadows were carving my bone structure at dusk, the way his strange mood was unsettling me, and how much it excited him to see me unsettled, and how powerful that made me, exciting him like that. My disquiet had been genuine, at first. Unaffected. And still, in that moment, I knew that Robert saw me as fragile, which made him feel powerful, which makes him happy; and happy is easier to live with, and I was exhausted and desperate to move on; and so I chose to sit there looking fragile, so he could recharge, so we could get back to normal.

Of course, normal was dissolving already. A spell was breaking in my bones. Sitting there in silence, looking pretty and fragile, I understood: there has never been a time when I haven’t been aware of how my husband sees me. How I look. Looking pretty. Looking like Ingrid Bergman in Stromboli. Looking like Ingrid Bergman on Stromboli, for that matter—which is exactly how Luna and Monique see me too, for entirely different reasons. Like I’m the harlot on their island. Like my supply of what they want or need or loathe is limited, or depleting.

On a cellular level, with Stuart: always knowing he’d peel me into strips to weave onto a page. Recognizing I’d want to love the thing he weaves, the way I’m seen. Moving accordingly.

This isn’t the Elizabeth I know, he’d say, and I’d reply, That’s just the trouble, isn’t it?