Simon spreads his hands on his desk and leans towards her. Agnes finds herself regarding him anew, after Montague’s words. He was never handsome, even in his youth, but he does have a trustworthy, open face and real solicitude in his gaze.

She cannot see his blue eyes without calling to mind those of Constance. Hers were fringed with long lashes, intelligent in expression but cruel, savouring another’s misery. Simon’s could not be more different. They are lighter and small, yet there is a depth to them that few people possess.

‘I have made such a muddle of everything,’ she confesses. ‘Worse than that. I have caused harm to others. But you see, I was not thinking straight. How could I, over these last few months?’

‘Never mind that. I know better than anyone how severely you have been tried. Just tell me what happened. You know you can always talk to me.’

There is not much left of his brown hair. A belly protrudes beneath his waistcoat, but she must admit that both these signs of age rather suit him. She has altered physically, and he has never treated her the slightest bit differently.

‘I am afraid you will be displeased with me.’

‘I could never truly be displeased with you, Miss Darken.’

Dear Simon. Montague seemed to imply that he was the proper match for her. Can it be true? Simon is not the type of man she envisaged for herself, but perhaps real love is not all romance; perhaps it is friendship and a dogged devotion that stands the test of time.

‘You are kind to say so, but I am conscious of doing wrong. You advised me as a physician and a friend, and I deliberately went against you.’

Despite his assurances of forgiveness, annoyance flits across his face. Perhaps annoyance is too strong a word; it is more like a shifting: Simon making room for some new disappointment he must deal with.

What an irritant she has been to him. She irritates herself, with her caprices and violent mood swings. Truly, this man has been a saint to endure her for so long.

‘I am sorry, Simon. The uncertainty ate away at me. I needed to be doing something, and I … I called upon a spirit medium.’

Rather than brave his gaze, she concentrates on the dark brown and beige damask on the walls. Under consideration, it is not so very dull a pattern; there is a stolid respectability to it, much like the occupant himself.

Simon’s breath pours out. Morpheus, who is keeping aloof today, grunts from the corner.