“I was thinking about what you said about going home,” Tyler said in between mouthfuls. “About working remotely.”

“Oh?” Emily tossed a closed shell into the upturned lid of her pot and looked across at him. There was a slither of juice running down his wrist, a piece of coriander stuck in his teeth and crumbs all over his shirt.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. Only ever communicating with people via email, not in the real world.”

“I see people.”

“The same people,” he said, pointing an empty shell at her. “From the same village you’ve lived in for most of your life. People move to Wells to retire, Em, to see out the end of their lives. After they’ve done all they can, made their memories, had their adventures, broken hearts, wishes fulfilled.”

Emily licked salty droplets from her fingers, ignoring the thinly veiled insult.

“Well?” A drop of juice fell from his chin.

“Well, what?”

“I think you should leave Norfolk.”

“You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t.” He sat back, pushed away his plate. He looked down to see the way her hand had unconsciously been moving bread crumbs into a pattern on the tablecloth. It was the shape of a mouse, with a long tail that curled around her plate.

“You used to make up stories.”

“I did?”

“All the time.” He nodded, then reached out for another piece of bread. “When we were in the park, or on the bus, or watching some incredibly dull play. You would make up stories about all the people around us. Imagining where they lived, what their secrets were. If they liked Marmite or fudge.”

“Vanilla fudge.” It was like heaven in a bite.

“Chocolate.” He gave her a gentle nudge with his foot, under the table, and it made her smile. “My point is you could carry on, you know, without her.”

It was the same idea presented to Emily over and over, by well-meaning friends. Her grandmother’s friends, people she only knew because of her. On some level Emily knew they were right. She understood she was the best person to carry on Catriona Robinson’s legacy. But she also didn’t want to do it by herself, because what if Tyler was wrong? What if they were all wrong and she was nothing more than someone who painted the pictures of someone else’s story?

“No.”

He was looking at her in that way again, as if she were his own private puzzle that he needed to solve.

“So, this unfinished manuscript.” He sat back, looped his hands behind his head. “You know how it ends?”

“Sort of.” The truth was her grandmother had never said.

“Are you allowed to tell me?”

Emily leant down beneath her chair, took out her sketchbook, and opened it to reveal a picture of Ophelia as a teenager. She was carrying the magical atlas in her rucksack while skimming through country lanes on her bike.

Tyler turned the book around, looked at the detail of each strand of Ophelia’s hair, the spokes of wheel that seemed to be spinning and the tiny specks of dirt that clung to her skin.