“Perhaps.”

Perhaps that’s what her grandmother wanted: for Emily to understand who she used to be, to discover who and what it was that shaped her, left such an impression on her life that she chose to share those particular months, those specific memories, with her granddaughter.

Only, what would happen if all she did was discover more death? If she were to go through all of this simply to find that none of them, other than Charlie, still existed? It was an idea so sad that Emily pushed it away. Because her grandmother couldn’t—wouldn’t—be that cruel.

Tyler folded the pages neatly in two, slipped them safely back into their envelope, and handed it over. “Maybe it’s not that convoluted. Maybe she just wants you to see the life she once had.”

The wind rushed over to them, sneaking under the hem of her skirt, lifting the hairs on her legs, and she stood, turned her back on England, from where they had come.

Back inside, she took out her sketchbook and ancient Discman, felt the familiar weight of them in her palm, then plugged in Tyler’s headphones. Sketchbook on the table by the window, she flicked through to a blank page, smoothed the sheets down, and readied herself to begin. She knew he was watching, that he was trying to catch a glimpse of all the pages filled with her pictures.

“What will you do after?” he said.

“After what?”

“When this is all over. Will you stay in Norfolk? Mum told me you’ve been doing some freelance work.” He pointed to the window, to where a trio of seagulls now stood. “Is that what the birds are about?”

“Sort of.” Emily placed the headphones over her ears and pressed the play button, a button which once had the indent of a triangle but had long since been worn smooth. As the thud of bass guitar drowned out the world, she turned a little away from his gaze and began to draw the familiar shape of a wing.

It had been her grandmother’s idea, for Emily to try working for herself, once she’d decided to turn her hand again to adult fiction. Emily had resisted, said she didn’t want to paint to order. But then Catriona got sick and could no longer find the will to write, and Emily had needed something to keep her mind occupied, keep her hands busy while she watched doctors pump poison through her grandmother’s veins in an attempt to rid her of cancer.

They would sit and talk about the books, the characters waiting to be brought to life on paper through Emily’s talent. But for Emily it was never the same, because they came from someone she didn’t know. For her there was no one she wanted to draw more than Ophelia.

Then her grandmother had gone into remission. The cancer was gone and she could pick up where she left off, begin to write once more. For just over a year all was as it should have been, with Emily watching as a new story began to unfold. She had listened to her grandmother on the phone, talking to her publisher, to Charlie, about how she had an idea for something else. Something other than a little girl and her duck, with more magic, more exploration into what it is that binds us all together.