Harry sketched them as they lolled in the leveled orchard, Bartley holding branches to his chest, Pembridge dozing among the rotting apples, Fearnley and Robertson crouched over hands of cards. The bright spring light gave the fallen trees sharp shadows. He could smell the sweetness of the new-cut wood. A collared dove took off from among the grass. He was startled at the sudden flash of wings.

“Jumpy?” Fearnley said with a laugh.

“Too bloody right!” He put the sketchbook away and stretched. “Where’s Frannie?”

“In the house, I think, with his camera.”

The near side of the farmhouse was still standing, though the windows had gone and floral curtains billowed out from the upper floor. Harry trod through broken glass and fallen tiles. The door was swinging on a hinge. He stepped inside. The furniture looked like someone had taken an ax to it. A kitchen dresser had been pulled over, spilling an avalanche of plates and bowls and a porcelain coffee service. The floor was all splinters and smashed willow-pattern china. It was silent now but for the noise of the wind. There were moony woodland glades in the design of the wallpaper. What orgy of destruction had roared through these walls? What loud violence had filled this room just hours earlier?

Their portraits were still above the fireplace, facing photographs of him and her, their side-by-side faces angled so that their eyes seemed to triangulate upon Harry as he approached. She had braided hair, pale eyelashes, and a hydrangea flower in her hands. He had last-century side-whiskers and was holding out an open book. Harry thought them rather mannered images; they were slightly forced and awkward, like they were trying to be Pre-Raphaelite portraits. Were these unsmiling faces those of the couple who had chosen the willow-pattern china and the moony wallpaper? Was this their home? Harry heard his brother’s tread on the floor above and remembered twinned portraits of him and Edie that he had once painted long ago.

On the landing there were chunks of plaster that had come down from the ceiling, and a baby carriage. He pushed a door and saw a room with papers all over the floor, like an explosion in a library. He stared at the pages around his feet, most of which seemed to have been torn from travel books. He stepped over maps of Abyssinia and images of Arctic expeditions and wondered why it was so important that these pages be wrenched from their spines. What crime had this litter of words committed? The next room was full of feathers and clothes and his brother taking photographs.

“Has someone had a pillow fight in here?”

The white feathers were everywhere. They trembled as he stepped into the room. He could smell the spilled powders and perfumes. Francis laughed behind the lens. “Happen that’s how we’ll finish it.”