I take it he thinks we’ve exhausted the subject of my father, and in truth, I’m not sure there is anything left for me to ask. Nothing he can answer, at any rate. “Yes, Carrie. Half sister, actually. But of course you would know that.”

He nods. “Aye. Do you get on?”

“Em, yes. I guess.” It’s not a question I was expecting. “Living under the same roof as adults is . . .” I think of our argument, of Carrie’s threat to leave. I think of all the things I know about her now, the trail she leaves behind her, of open doors and objects, proof of where she has traveled. I think of her need for company and noise, the way they transform her: I’m not like you; I’m a people person. I wonder what she would say in my place. “Well, it’s new for us. But . . . yes, I guess mostly we do.”

“That’s good.” He looks at his empty plate for a moment then nods, a tiny motion, as if it’s for himself alone. “That’s good. That’s something.”

•   •   •

I try to call Jonathan from the car park of the hotel before I leave. It’s an utterly stupid thing to do, because it’s the crack of dawn in Washington DC. I realize that just in time to hang up before voice mail kicks in. Though hearing his familiar BBC English on his voice mail would have been better than nothing. I’m craving some kind of lifeline to the present—the past seems to be all but swallowing me up. Instead I drive slowly and carefully back along the winding road to the Manse, pondering the fact that for once in my life I have too much time to think, and yet I’m not using it to think about anything productive. I should be working through where I want to take my career or using this time apart from Jonathan to try to untangle how I feel about him, about us, about the future, and instead I’m rummaging around in events of the past, and worrying about flies and birds and intruders that may or may not exist outside my brain. I park up in front of the Manse, eyeing it mutinously, but it doesn’t take the bait. It’s just a pile of bricks, after all.