Or perhaps she’d grab something by Gardam. Another complete shelf. Jane Gardam could keep her awake with her signature humour and love of life. Not to mention her insights into human behaviour.

Addie returned to her apartment by elevator, a flat padded envelope in hand. Who had sent a CD in the mail? That’s what the package felt like. Printed label on the outside, no return address. She ripped open the envelope and a small card fell out: I remember your love of music. This might help. Unsigned, but Tye would know she’d recognize his writing. Tears filled her eyes quite suddenly. Tye knew how difficult these days would be.

The recording was one Addie knew about but hadn’t heard. Max Richter’s Three Worlds: Music from Woolf Works—the ballet. She hadn’t seen the production; the music must have filtered down from the original performance. She glanced at the insert while putting the CD in the player and kept the pamphlet in hand so she could follow along. Three books had been chosen for the work: Mrs. Dalloway, Orlando, The Waves. The piece began with Virginia Woolf discussing words in a 1937 BBC Radio broadcast. Richter chose a passage one minute long from the only known extant recording of her voice.

Addie played the opening minute twice, straining to hear individual words. Incarnadine. Multitudinous seas. That would be Macbeth. She settled into her chair, put her feet up on the jute ottoman and listened to the entire recording. The mood was that of a threnody. Contemplative, wavelike, urgent, haunting, reminiscent.

She didn’t know how to respond to Tye. Perhaps it would be best not to. Right now, she could deal with only one large issue at a time. He had sent this as an act of tenderness, of kindness, she was certain. And the music, not always soothing but appropriate, did help her mood. She was immensely grateful that someone in the world knew her well enough to understand how much this would mean to her.

She gathered up her things: pillow, shrug, books. Gardam and le Carré both, for good measure. She headed to the parking level and her car.

Changes

GWEN

Snow had fallen again in the night, enough to cover the lawn. The world sparkled in morning light, and Gwen was cheered by the sight. The earlier sprinkling hadn’t lasted, but this snowfall appeared to have every intention of staying. The real beginning of winter. A season she used to dread because extreme cold and deep snow meant she’d be locked indoors with Brigg for long smothering stretches without escape, especially to the impassable backyard—unless she spent half a day shovelling, which she sometimes did. Especially when the twins were young. She and the boys made snow caves, which the boys called quinzhees, though the word wasn’t entirely accurate to describe their creations. The three of them sat inside, backs to the curve of wall, marvelling at the way sound was muffled, the way ordinary noises of the street were kept far off. They ran their mittens down hard-packed inner walls and gazed out through the arched entrance, which faced the hedge at the back of the yard, never the house. Gwen provided hot chocolate, which they drank solemnly, passing the thermos cup, their winter quinzhee ritual.