For the first time since Stefan died I felt almost pleased to be home. The house looked as it always did – old and sturdy and totally wrong for me. It was too symmetrical – too splendid. I wanted chaos. Mess. I wanted patterned wallpaper hung upside down. I wanted floral curtains and polka-dot drapes. I could have had it, if I’d asked. But I think I preferred wanting it than having it. However it looked, I was pleased to see it that night. Happy to push open the back door and bathe myself in light. I drank a measure of sloe gin then poured another into a mug of boiling water. Went to the library and pulled a book at random from the shelves. I couldn’t concentrate on the words. Every time I tried to focus I would again see the burnt paper and Fairfax’s scribbled words and my vision would fill with images of frightened men and women herded like cattle and a young boy draped across a Nazi vehicle like a stag.