“These things happen to the best of us,” she said. “I know that more than most, actually.” He cast a questioning glance at her but didn’t pursue it. She was thinking of her own ignoble origins, but then Ruby’s mind flitted briefly to her own indiscretions, which amounted to a string of meaningless encounters during one particularly depressing summer. She tried not to feel bad about it, but the shame sat there, deeply rooted and taking up the space where intimacy should have been. “Where did you two meet?”

“A beach party, as it happens.”

“Sounds wild.”

“It was fun. And I really liked her. But after she got pregnant so quickly … we didn’t really know each other, you know? I just couldn’t stay in a relationship where we were so different.”

“So, you ended it?”

“Yeah. But I feel bad every day, that I couldn’t make it work. The baby. And everything. I have to take the blame, as it was completely my decision to split, but … I just wish I could love her the way she still loves me.”

“You can’t force these things.”

What must it be like for both of them, living together and yet not living together? One of them still holding a candle, and then the baby complicating things. And the agoraphobia must have intensified everything. No wonder he looked so tired. The nocturnal yoga made sense now too—it was probably the only time the apartment was quiet.

Gregor’s eyes took on a faraway look. He stood up. “I really should get back now. I only popped out to get milk. Constance gets worried if I take too long.”

Ruby stood up too, and the two of them walked a few steps together. “Is it that bad for her?”

“It’s variable. Sometimes she’s fine, seems to be coping okay. Other days, like today, not so much. Thanks for listening, Ruby. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

And he was gone, jogging in the direction of the shop before she could say another word.

CHAPTER

11

He wooed her so earnestly and lovingly, that she put on some woman’s clothing which he brought her from his cottage, followed him home, and became his wife.

—Patrick Kennedy, “The Silkie Wife,” 1891

TWO YEARS and SIX MONTHS EARLIER

Constance

The Summer Solstice

SHE SEES THE rocks from offshore and feels a thrill run through her. The solstice is the night of possibilities, the night things can happen. The sand of the beach is a pale strip against the moving water, the darker cliffs beyond. She cuts through the water smoothly, looping under and around her brother, making him laugh because he didn’t see her coming. Others are already on the beach, already lighting the fire. Soon the drums will start, and after that her favorite part, the dancing.