During the silence that followed, I resisted the temptation to turn round. With the mention of Stella’s name the brush stopped dabbing and scraping over the canvas. After a while his footsteps came softly over the wooden floor, and I sensed him standing at my shoulder.

“I’m sure that’s true,” he said, after a long pause. “I’m sorry.”

It was a victory of sorts. I felt as if I’d won a single round in a long and complicated game.

“I wish you’d tell me about Stella,” he went on. “What was she like?”

I tightened the grip on my elbows. This wasn’t the first time Cory had asked questions about my sister, but I’d never given much of an answer before. That unaccustomed feeling of triumph made my voice harsh. It made me harsh.

“What was she like? I don’t know; where do I begin? Arsey. Divaish. Destructive. Self-absorbed.” I was about to add reproachful, but it was only since her death that she’d become accusatory, and I didn’t want to talk about that.

I set my jaw and dared him to be shocked. At the same time my eyes prickled, and the subdued colours of the trees seemed to waver and mix like diluted paint. Something landed lightly on my shoulder and I glimpsed his stained fingers through the corner of my eye.

“Oh, look.” I rubbed my cheeks and shook my head. “I don’t mean that. Or rather, I do mean it, but it’s only a fragment. I could have said she was lovable and funny and full of life.”

He hesitated. “But that wouldn’t be true?”

“Yes. Yes, it would.”

I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes and held them there until, by conscious effort, I’d managed to turn my impatience away from him and toward myself instead. I always made a mess of expressing things; it was no wonder he’d failed to grasp my meaning.

“It would be true,” I repeated, all the force gone from my voice. “All of those nice things would be equally true.”

“But when I asked you what Stella was like, all her bad points came pouring out first. That must mean something, mustn’t it? Don’t be annoyed, I’m just curious . . .”

I kept my hands over my eyes as he drew me back into the room. When I uncovered them I saw, behind him, the painting of the girl who was meant to be me. I moved closer to his face until the girl passed out of view, and then I stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the forehead.

“Stella seems less dead when I talk about her bad points,” I explained. “People don’t speak ill of the dead, do they?”

He laughed uncertainly, as if I’d cracked a joke that he didn’t quite get.