There’s a dead bolt on the front door that neither Carrie nor I had thought to use before we went up to bed. Now I shoot it firmly home. Then I check all the windows on the ground floor. Finally I confront the back door. Contrary to my night visitor’s statement, it’s not immediately obvious that there’s anything wrong with the mechanism. At a loss for what to do, I shoot the dead bolt, then look around for something to jam the door for good measure, but nothing springs to mind. Reluctantly I admit defeat and head on up the stairs, though I imagine I’ll be far too keyed up to sleep. I stand in the yellow light of the second-floor hallway, listening once again to Carrie’s rhythmic breathing, and marveling that she has slept through this entire episode. I wonder what she will say when I tell her about it, and even as the thought passes through my mind, I realize I won’t tell her. She would expect me to have woken her, and how could I explain why I didn’t even think of it?

Carrie’s steady breathing continues. I turn off the hall light then go directly to climb straight into my new bed in my new bedroom. If the Manse has anything more to say to me, it can wait for the morning.

•   •   •

I awake with the awareness that sleep has been a threadbare blanket, unable to block out reality: I’ve had an uneasy sense of exactly where I am all night. I’m rubbing my scratchy eyes and nursing a cup of tea at the kitchen table when Carrie wanders in wearing a fleecy dressing gown tied loosely over flannel pajama trousers and a thin-strapped camisole. Is this what she sleeps in, or is this simply what she pulls on in the morning? Yet another thing I suppose I will learn. How many pieces of the puzzle are required before the full picture emerges?

She runs a critical eye over me whilst yawning herself. “You don’t look like you slept very well.”

“You say the nicest things,” I say wryly. “The kettle has just boiled. How did you sleep?”

“Like the dead.” The phrase makes me flinch, but Carrie is busying herself with a mug and instant coffee, and doesn’t notice. “It’s so quiet here. Anyway, sleeping is never a problem; it’s the waking up. Coffee is the only answer.” She takes her mug and sits opposite me, pushing her fringe out of her eyes. There are remnants of yesterday’s smudged eyeliner around her eyes, and her features are still blurred with the traces of sleep. It’s like seeing her through a Vaseline-coated lens.

“You have a rehearsal today, right?”

“Yep. What time is it?”