“Really? Is that when she’s on her medication, or off it? Or when she’s wandering through the Manse when it’s unoccupied?” The words have marched out of my mouth before I can stop them, followed instantly by a twinge of guilt for breaking faith with Jamie. Though surely my first concern has to be Carrie’s safety . . .

“What?”

“I saw her here. Up in the box room.”

Carrie pauses. “You saw her here. You’re one hundred percent sure you saw her here.” She reads my face, and her own erupts in exasperation. “No, you’re not, are you? My God, Ailsa, will you just listen to yourself? Where’s your famous journalistic reason and impartiality?”

“No, I’m not certain, but who else has that style of haircut?” Unless it was the lampshade after all . . . but I’m certain. I’m almost certain. “Who else would it be? She didn’t deny that she comes here, and someone had been through those boxes. There was no dust on them.” I take a breath and try to lower my voice. “Okay, I’m not certain, but it fits. She’s always been obsessed with this place, apparently.”

“Are you kidding? Everyone round here is obsessed with this place! I am telling you now, Ailsa, that if you are not prepared to be civil to, and about, the people I call friends, then you’re not the person I thought you were. And . . . and I’m not prepared to live with you if that’s the case.” She cuts off her uncharacteristic outburst abruptly.

My breath catches as I stare at her. She’s fiercely tight-lipped, her shoulders rigid with fury and resolve. It’s not a bluff; I can see that in her stone-gray eyes even though she’s refusing to look at me. She would actually move out over this. And if she moves out—what then? We would see each other as we always have, from time to time, when I’m in the country. Siblings, but distant. Half sisters, less than half, nowhere near the whole. I can hear her now: Family? Well, there’s only Dad and me now, really. I do have a half sister, but we don’t really talk. “Well . . . I’d be very sorry if you did. I don’t want you to move out.” She looks at me, but nothing has softened. She needs more. And it’s not as if she’s being unreasonable—I’m the one with the inexplicable dread. Nearly inexplicable dread. I’m the one who’s being unfair and unreasonable and impressionable and all the things that are so far from my normal level self that when I sit back and look at myself, I almost can’t find me. How did I get to here? And why can’t I just get over this unease? “I wouldn’t have asked you to stay if I didn’t want you here.”