Perhaps my cold had made me deaf, but the floor seemed strangely silent under my feet as I made my way to the door. Cory had disappeared in a huddle of shadows and bed linen, and if I hadn’t known better I’d have doubted he was still there. The idea that he might be up and about made me halt, dry mouthed—but that was silly. There: that pale line was the edge of his ear, and that slope followed the curve of his shoulder, and hadn’t the duvet just shifted, ever so slightly, with the rise and fall of his breathing? His clothes were in a muddle at the foot of the bed, and all I had to do was slide my fingers into the correct pocket and take a tight hold of the keys so that they wouldn’t jangle as I lifted them away.

I’d forgotten there was a window on the landing, and my reflection made me jump when I reached the top of the stairs. It wasn’t my own face that bothered me so much as the idea of another face appearing behind it. I put a protective hand on my neck, and as I did so the briefest flutter of movement seemed to sound in the depths of the house. Instinctively I turned round, but of course I couldn’t see anything. The stairwell was a black pit.

I was tempted to blow the candle out so that I could blend in with the darkness. A draught from the attic door almost did the job for me, but I cupped my hand around the wilting flame and saved it after all. I tried a couple of keys before I found the one that fitted, and as soon as the door opened I recognised Diana’s room by its smell. It was the smell of the clothes I’d been wearing all week; of the dressing gown I was wearing now.

I stepped inside and held the candle high, sweeping it round in an arc. A face flashed at me out of the shadowy clutter; a death’s head, resting on a pillow. I hugged the wine bottle against my chest, and one of my hairs fizzled in its flame.

I heard her breathe—a long, dwindling exhalation—and looked again.

“Diana?”

I put the candle on the bedside table among the pills and knickknacks, and knelt beside her head.