“I woke up at eight, wanting to draw you,” he said. “Needing to. And you weren’t there.”

I kept my eyes on the path, resisting the urge to look round. The tide was out, and Maggie was making her way home along the shoreline.

“She’s my friend,” I repeated. “You could have tried harder.”

“Oh, Freya.” Cory reached for my hand, and when he squeezed my fingers the ring dug into my flesh. “You take these things too much to heart.”

“But ‘these things’ matter,” I said, yanking my hand free.

“No, they don’t; they don’t matter at all. In what sense does this Maggie-woman matter? She’s not part of our world.”

We were in the garden now, heading toward the house. Toward our world. I turned, but I could no longer see Maggie because she was hidden by the lip of the cliff.

“Look,” I said, taking a deep, patient breath. “I’ve got an idea: Why don’t we get away for a while? Let’s take a break from Byrne Hall and stay with Dad for a few days. You give the painting a rest, and I’ll forget about writing for a while . . . After all, now that your mum is being cared for—”

“Freya.” Cory stopped and faced me. I had to stop, too, or I would have walked into him. His voice was harsh but his eyes were wide and scared. He placed heavy hands on my shoulders and scrutinised my face.

“What? What have I said that’s so bad?”

He opened his arms wide and dropped them in a shrug.

“This life we’re building together, this ‘idyll,’ as you call it—it’s not some little craze of mine. It’s not some fad. It’s not a hobby . . .”

He stared at me, lost for words.

I took his hand and we walked to the pond, where Dad and I had loitered on the afternoon of my cousin’s wedding. Mottled yellow leaves were floating on the black surface of the water and sticking to the statue of the little boy.

“You’re talking about your art, really, aren’t you?” I said. “About your exhibition?”

“I’m talking about everything.”

I rested one knee on the low wall and peered down at our reflections. Our bodies had no edges down there in the water. We rippled in and out of one another, a muddle of shadow and light, and it was impossible to say where I ended and he began.

“I wish you understood,” he said.

I turned to look at him. His face was all the more lovable—and all the more agonising—for being opaque.

“I swapped my entire life for this,” I said. “Of course I understand. Don’t say I don’t understand.”

Chapter 6

6

“Are you OK to keep going, or do you need a break?” Cory asked, never taking his eyes off the easel.

“I’m fine.”