Carrie assures me that she passed on to Fiona both my number and the message for Glen McCue, but my phone doesn’t ring. It doesn’t ring on account of Jonathan much, either, even though the Deepwater Horizon story has moved past the stage where he needs to be in Louisiana and he’s now back in Washington. It seems my phone is particular about when it chooses to perform its sole required function. Some days all calls get straight through. On others, they stack up and blurt out all at once in a series of missed call messages, though none from Glen McCue. It always rings for Carrie, though, who calls me every day from the train. We have developed a rhythm, Carrie and I. And the Manse, too, to an extent, though it doesn’t keep time very well. Maybe it has dyschronometria, too.

Carrie’s phone, on the other hand, has no trouble in ringing. It rings on account of Pete, on account of her agent, on account of friends. It rings on account of Fiona, once, while we’re watching a film together: I see “Fi M” pop up on the screen. I pause the film, but she gestures for me to keep watching and takes herself out of the room in one sweeping movement. I’m about to hit play again when something flashes in the corner of my vision, at the window or just below it. I turn toward the wide bay window framed by its open drapes; once again, darkness has fallen without me noticing. What did I see? Something pale: white, perhaps, or a very weak yellow; something moving, just the fleetest of impressions. But there’s nothing to be seen except an oddly misshapen reflection of the lit room superimposed on the darkness by virtue of the old, uneven glazing. I can see blurry versions of the television, the sofa, even a bleed of gray that is myself, hovering uncertainly in the glass as I peer outside. Snatches of Carrie’s words reach my ears, too indistinct for me to follow the conversation, as I continue to look. Perhaps it was an animal, or a bird. An owl, I suppose, at this time of night. If it was anything at all, that is. Anything going bump in the night, Ailsa?