Mrs. Byrne has been in London forever, but she’s come back in the nick of time, and now she’s poised in the centre of the room, surveying the chaos. Stella’s explanations are incoherent for the time being, and Cory can’t seem to say anything at all—but Diana doesn’t press. That’s not her way. She begins to circle the room—picking up scraps of paper, shutting the window, covering the chamber pot, gesturing toward a restoration of order.

Stella waits in the attic while Cory is “put to bed”—his mother’s words—and after a while Diana returns with a bottle and two glasses on a tray. All Stella can think to say is, How is he? but there’s no way she’s going to, not even to fill an awkward gap.

Diana clears a careful space amid the shredded papers and sets the tray on the floor. The bottle is shaped like a violin and painted with garlands of white flowers. Diana uncorks it and pours clear liquid into the two tumblers—a large one for Stella and a small one for herself. Her hand trembles as she pours and Stella wonders if she’s had a few already.

“It’s an Austrian schnapps.” Diana is frowning at the label. “At least, I think it is. You buy these things on holiday, don’t you, and then they sit about the house ever after. It’ll warm you up, anyway, and that’s the main thing.”

Stella sips and grimaces. The schnapps tastes of resin and bitter herbs, and it burns a trail from her mouth to her stomach. A mug of tea would have done, she thinks. I wish I were at home.

Diana is on edge. She keeps her coat on and paces the room, stopping every now and then to glance at her reflection in the window. Stella thinks she is a magnificent human being although that might, in part, be a side effect of fame. Marginal fame. Years and years ago—when she was still unmarried and wealthy and given to patronising famous artists—Diana was interviewed and photographed by the Sunday Times magazine. Stella has seen the copy that Cory keeps inside a folder.

“How was London?” Stella asks, as if this is a suitable occasion for small talk.

“I spent every single second longing for Byrne Hall.”

Stella remembers that the trip involved an appointment at a private medical clinic, and bites back her instinctive, slightly facile reply—“Just as well for me”—in case Diana is seriously ill.