Isaac laughed. “I guess it’s kind of a hobby too. Art, painting . . .” Shades of embarrassment colored his voice, as though he needed to explain his work away. “My mum was a talented artist. She taught me how to look past what your brain is telling you you can see, and witness what’s really there instead. You’d be surprised how much our brains try to fill in the gaps for us.”

“You’ve clearly inherited your mum’s gift.”

Isaac handed her a glass mug of steaming wine and she thanked him.

“Do you have more?” she asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to finish that glass first?” Isaac smiled.

“Not the wine! Do you have more paintings that I can look at?”

Isaac shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “Like show-and-tell?”

Nory pulled a face at him. “I’m interested. Stop being so coy. This is good, I’d like to see more.”

“It feels a bit weird.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I do them for myself, I don’t usually show them to other people.”

“I’m not going to grade you! I’m just interested in art; that’s my hobby.”

Isaac stood cradling his mug for a moment while he deliberated and then finally said: “Okay. Come on. But if you give me any less than a C-plus, I’m taking the mulled wine back.”

Nory followed him through another door, which led into what was once a dining room. The dark wood table was a depository for books, stacked boxes of paints, sketchbooks of varying sizes, and rows of plant pots with seedlings pushing their tiny green heads out of the soil.

A bay window looked out onto the front garden. A generous cushioned window seat had been built in, but for the most part this too was covered in books. The walls were made up of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, leaving just two holes where shelves had been built around and above the doors to the kitchen and hallway.

“This room is pushing all my buttons,” Nory exclaimed breathlessly.

“I know, it’s a mess. I keep meaning to tidy it, but there’s always something I need—”

“No, I mean my buttons are being pushed in a good way,” Nory interrupted him. “It’s almost a library. Wait, are those shelves double stacked?” She moved toward one of the cases and pulled out a book to reveal another row of books behind. “Oh, you, Isaac, are a man after my own heart. My god, I’d like a day in here to root around.” She ran her fingers along old, cracked spines and faded leather bindings, occasionally pulling out a book and examining it briefly before carefully replacing it.

“When I said my parents could never bear to part with anything, that extended to books,” said Isaac, watching Nory. “I got rid of most of the furniture, but I must have the same hoarder tendencies when it comes to these.”