A bunch of keys fell out of Cory’s trouser pockets as I rummaged through the pile, and I stooped to pick them up. There were half a dozen or so on a loop of string, mostly old-fashioned mortice keys—the kind a Victorian housekeeper might have carried on her belt.

There was a knock at the front door, and the noise roused me from my daze. I shoved the keys back in Cory’s pocket, fished a woollen cardigan from the pile, and put it on. It didn’t feel right wearing Diana’s clothes—all those quality yarns, and expertly darned elbows, and pearl buttons—but being cold was marginally worse.

The knock sounded again, swift and smart. I heard Cory cross the hall to open the door, and then I heard a woman scream.

She screamed again as I came charging down the stairs three at a time, and when I reached the hall she shoved Cory aside and ran forward with her hands over her face. I didn’t understand. What was I missing? The woman was Maggie, and she kept shouting at me, “Oh my God! Freya! What’s happened? What did he do to you?”

We met at the bottom of the stairs and she made as if to grab me, but something stopped her. She looked me up and down instead and touched me gingerly on my arms, my elbows, and my paint-stained hands. She peered into my puzzled face and let out a long, shaky breath.

“Oh no!” She dropped my hands and pressed her fingertips to her mouth. Her eyes welled up as she started to laugh. “It’s paint, isn’t it? It’s red paint.”

Maggie looked from me to Cory and back again, her features anxious even while her shoulders shook with laughter. I suppose she was hoping we’d laugh, too, and make it all right. I smiled quickly so that she’d know I wasn’t offended, but Cory turned away.

“I’m so sorry,” she spluttered, as he made his way back across the hall. She tried to pat him on the arm as he went past but she couldn’t quite reach, and he took no notice of her gesture. I couldn’t laugh—not a proper belly laugh like hers—but she was right; he did make a grisly spectacle. He’d got his hands covered whilst pouring the paint into the roller tray, and then got the worst off by wiping it on his T-shirt and down the sides of his jeans.

“We’re painting the downstairs rooms for Cory’s exhibition,” I explained, as we followed him into the half-painted room.