“Even so, it’s part of local legend round here. I’m not sure you’re going to want to know this, but . . .” I can see she’s going to tell me anyway.

“But what?”

“I think half the locals around your age lost their virginity in the Manse.”

“What?”

“One of the stable girls was laughing about it when I went to the equestrian center. Did you know Mum didn’t rent it out for the first decade or so? It was just empty, and not terribly well secured; all of that got sorted once she decided to rent it, but until then it was apparently a piece of cake to get in. So if you were a pair of horny teenagers looking for a place to be alone . . .” She lifts her eyebrows expressively, amusement radiating from her gray eyes.

I look around involuntarily, as if I might see a couple of spotty-faced, loved-up teens going at it behind us. “Fuck!”

“Quite.” Suddenly we are both giggling. “Apparently the man at the estate agent said that Mum’s decision to rent out the Manse did more for lowering the teenage pregnancy rate round here than any school sex education program could have.”

“Christ.” I shake my head, still smiling. There’s something oddly reassuring about the idea of the Manse as a haven for hormonal teenagers seeking to indulge their sex-obsessed tendencies. It’s so normal it’s almost wholesome, and that makes the Manse seem wholesome too. I can’t imagine any level of hormones would entice teenagers to undertake their initiation into the delights of sex in a place that feels sinister. Though that suggests once again that it’s all in my head . . . I shake off that disquieting thought. “Do you think that counts for or against it in an open-market sale?”

She grins. “Definitely for.” Then she cocks her head. “Have you considered not selling?”

“What, staying here?”

“Yes. It’s not like you really stay in London, is it? You don’t really live anywhere.”

I leave a small pause before I answer her. “I live with Jonathan.”

Even as I’m saying it, I can see the holes in the sentiment. Carrie looks like she’s about to say something but thinks better of it. Instead she turns back to the inscription. “A furnace of the soul,” she says again, barely audibly, and I’m almost sure there’s something she’s not telling me. Many things, perhaps. We’ve been eating together, and watching television together most nights—the news or a film—and we’ve been talking, but never about anything important. I wonder if the pitfalls we’re each avoiding are the same ones. Maybe we’re not navigating the same landscape at all.

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