Her eyes. And the somehow rosy glow of her.

“The bottom drawer,” she said, moving her hand a little to indicate the chest behind the door.

“The bottom drawer?” He went down on one knee, opened the drawer. He reached in, touched gauze, silk, silky things that seemed to cling to his skin. He squeezed the ribs of a corset, got his fingers tangled in smallclothes, in ties, lappets, hooked whatnots. His rummaging released a scent, a more intimate version of what hung in the air of the room.

“Not in here, I think,” he said.

“Try the middle one,” she said.

He tried it, found unpinned sleeves, mob caps, pockets. Finally, thank God, an item that might be a man’s shirt. Unless it was one of her shifts. What if it was and he put it on?

He closed the drawer and stood up. “You have been very kind,” he said. “And it is only for a day or two, I hope. If there is a shop on the island I might buy some shirts.”

“There is no shop,” she said. “A pedlar comes up sometimes but there are no shops.”

“I suppose not.”

“Will you ask Emily,” she said, “to bring up my coffee?”

“To . . . ?”

“Bring up my coffee.”

“I will,” he said.

“Are you going to be staying here?” she asked.

“If I may,” he said. “For a while.”

He left her, took the shirt down to the room where he had slept. The music room, the secret room. He stripped off the damp shirt and pulled on Thorpe’s. It was too big—too big by several sizes. He tucked in the tail, rolled up the sleeves. He had thought it might smell faintly of Jane’s things, but it smelled of something else, and after sniffing at the arms, the armpits, he realised it must be Thorpe. It was not offensive, though his skin did not feel wholly his own.

He put on his waistcoat (the moleskin) and went back to the kitchen. Cornelius was sitting at the table, shoulders hunched under the hieroglyphic gown. He was sipping something from a bowl. He moved a hand in greeting but did not speak.

“He is a martyr to his teeth,” said Emily. She did not sound particularly sympathetic.

“Your sister,” said Lacroix, “wondered if she might have her coffee.”

He went out to ramble. He learned that the house was quite as isolated as it had seemed on his arrival. From the top of the nearest hill—not a particularly high one—he could see no other houses, no other human figure in the landscape, though to the south he could see the smoke of the weed-burning and knew there must be people there.