Cory tried it on all my fingers in turn, but the only one it almost fitted was the fourth finger of my left hand. I looked swiftly into his face, but he seemed unaware of the significance.

“Does this mean we’re engaged?”

It was, I felt, a question I ought to know the answer to without having to ask outright.

“Would you like it to mean that?”

“I don’t know.”

I twisted the ring round, exploring its points and ridges with the pad of my thumb. It was tight, but just about moveable.

“Yes,” I corrected myself belatedly. I looked into his face and said it again. “Yes!”

He had made his hand into a fist. I stroked it, but it was like trying to soften a stone, so I raised it to my lips and kissed it. There was no response. I kissed it again.

“I didn’t mean to equivocate. I was surprised, that’s all. I’m sorry. The answer is yes.”

Nothing.

Over and over again, knuckle by knuckle, I kissed his hand.

“I won’t stop doing this,” I warned, turning it over and starting on the other side, “until you stop being cross.”

Slowly, he unclenched his fist and we both began to laugh.

Diana can’t tell where she is. Sometimes she seems to sense the outlines of her own bedroom, but if this is Byrne Hall then why has everything gone quiet? She and the house have kept up a lively dialogue for years and, as far as she’s concerned, there are still things to say. In her most anguished moments, Diana imagines she’s been removed to some sinister institution: a hospital, perhaps, or a “home.”

She hasn’t known this depth of quiet for a long time. It resembles the quiet that fell on Byrne Hall thirteen years ago, after her husband died.

What a strange quiet that was. Diana thought the house would sing for joy when that man died, and it surprised her—surprises her still—that it didn’t.

“I’m opening a bottle of champagne,” she’d announced, as the sun melted into the sea. Nine hours had passed since her husband was discovered, washed up on the beach like a length of driftwood. “We could go and drink it in the garden, just you and me?” She’d already made her way through half a bottle of brandy over the course of the afternoon. People kept recommending it for shock.

“I’m thirteen.” Cory glared at the floor. “I’m not supposed to drink alcohol.”

“Well, I won’t tell if you won’t . . .” She nudged him gently with her elbow, but he twisted away as if she’d wounded him.

“I’m going to bed.”