I sat up, shivering, and while I sipped he placed a dressing gown round my shoulders. I suppose it was Diana’s—it smelled of her musky perfume—but I didn’t have to think about that. The drink was fiery, and there was plenty of it. It was the first thing I’d tasted in twenty-four hours, unless you count cold water sucked from the bathroom tap.

Tom—or was it Cory?—touched my hair, and my eyes swam and spilt, as if I’d never known kindness like it.

The next time I woke it was dark and Cory was asleep beside me, his breathing regular and deep. I whispered his name but he didn’t stir, so I peeled the sheets off my body and let cool air into the bed. I’d spent all day with the shivers but now I felt sticky and hot, and my head was throbbing.

Cory had put a lighted candle on the windowsill. It was burning low—there was barely an inch of white wax left in the neck of the bottle—and the flame was wavering. The rain kept blowing in gusts against the window, and the candlelight made it look as though a dripping, golden web had been strung across the glass.

I put my hand over my eyes and tried to remember. I’d been standing on a stage, taking a deep breath before I began—began what?—and all the people in the audience had been sitting forward in their seats, rustling with anticipation . . . I uncovered my eyes and Cory’s paintings and drawings seemed to crowd forward from the walls, all those identical girls with their empty eyes and pouty lips, craning and jostling to see what I intended to do.

My legs were shaky at first, but I felt better once I’d tied the belt on my dressing gown and made it to the windowsill to pick up the candle. I didn’t relish the idea of exploring Byrne Hall by candlelight, but it was safer than flinging electric lights on all over the place.