Carrie is busying herself with mugs and tea bags when I get to the kitchen. “Sorted,” I tell her. “I’ve boosted the heating now; hopefully it will warm up soon.” She doesn’t react, her dark head still bent over the mugs. I watch her for a moment, taking in her deliberate silence. It’s effective, this passive-aggressive approach. She must have been an absolute joy to live with in her teenage years. I missed all of those. “We should go out,” I say suddenly. “We could eat at the local pub or something—it’s got to be better than freezing ourselves here. My treat. We can celebrate . . . I don’t know . . .” I trail off. What is there to celebrate? We’re only here because our mother died and somehow that prompted me to make a cack-handed attempt to reconnect with her. That, and what Jonathan said before I left Egypt.

But Carrie’s head has lifted. “The Quaich,” she says. There’s more life in her voice now. The Quaich is the gastropub in the village. She’s pronouncing it wrong, with a hard k sound at the end, but who am I to judge? I haven’t lived in Scotland for twenty-seven years. “We could walk there, so we can both have a drink. We might even meet some of the locals.” The locals. Locals like Morag, or the mystery newspaper-deliverer? I wish I could swallow back the suggestion, but it’s too late, Carrie is glancing down at herself. “I’ll go and change.” Now she’s looking me over, assessing my attire too.

“Me too.” It hadn’t occurred to me to change clothes for a dinner at the local pub, but Carrie’s enthusiasm is a stiff wind. It’s easier not to fight it.

Soon I’m opening the door of my meager wardrobe, hoping for inspiration, but the clothes inside have not miraculously transformed into designer garments. I opt for skinny jeans with a kitten heel, and a white silk shirt with a deep V at the front that Jonathan always approved of. I head to the bathroom and put on some light makeup—the faint bruise from the poker requires some more careful work with concealer—then on second thought apply some heavier eyeliner. In for a penny . . .

Carrie is exiting her bedroom at the same time as I’m leaving the bathroom. Once again she runs a critical eye over me. “Good,” she says approvingly. “Though, I think . . .” She dashes back into her bedroom and returns with a long, complicated necklace of different-sized silver circular links, interspersed by chunks of what looks like green glass. It’s far bigger and busier than the jewelry I would ever choose to wear, but I put it on obediently.

“Much better,” she says with a satisfied air. “Here, look in my bedroom mirror.”