I replied without thinking—“Cory prefers it down”—and she made me feel the pause that followed; transformed the silence into a picture frame and put it round my words, so that they looked more significant than they were.

“And your eyes are raw,” she went on, “like you’ve been crying.”

“I haven’t been crying.”

“Does he hurt you?”

“No! Why would you think that?”

“It’s just . . .” She sighed. “I don’t know, there’s just something about him. He gives me the creeps.”

Maggie fumbled in her pocket and drew out a tube of mints. I shook my head, but she kept holding them out until I changed my mind and took one. I thought I disliked peppermints, but it turned out they tasted of childhood, and long car journeys, and home.

“It’s not as if you’ve nowhere to go,” she argued. “Your dad would welcome you back with open arms, wouldn’t he? From what you’ve told me?”

“I can’t go back. I can’t. It would be so . . .” I cast about for the right word. “Just so humiliating.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

I buried my face in the fluffy lining of the hood and closed my eyes. The flavour of peppermint was so sad. What did I mean? Only that I’d staked everything on Byrne Hall, and I couldn’t bear to lose.

“Cory and I, we’ve only been together a couple of months,” I said. “We need time.”

“Listen, Freya . . .”

Wearily, I slumped against her shoulder while she argued and pointed out and persuaded and suggested things that no doubt made sense. You are free . . . you can choose . . . you are not alone . . . She was one of those people who gesture a lot with their hands as they talk, so my head kept jolting about and bumping from side to side.

“Freya? Please help me to understand. Why are you letting this happen to you?”

I was playing with the engagement ring; it had become my habit to twist it round and run my thumbnail over the knotty bits of metal. I didn’t notice she’d stopped speaking until she repeated the question.

“Letting what happen?” I said. “Nothing is happening.”

Maggie kept her eyes on my fidgety fingers.

“Listen to me,” she said. “Don’t wait around. Don’t go imagining there’ll be some magical moment; some sign . . .”

It hadn’t occurred to me that I was waiting for a sign, but perhaps I was. Or, if not a sign exactly, then a flash of clarity. A word from Cory—a single gesture—that proved his worth, for good or ill.