We were out of breath by the time we reached the cliff tops, though Cory was in a worse state than me because he’d been laughing so hard. A middle-aged woman came round the corner with a spaniel on a lead and raised her eyebrows at the sight of our flushed faces. The three of us nodded briskly and said, “Morning” or “Hello,” and I watched her disappear round the bend in the road.

“So . . . ?” I prompted, once we’d found the footpath and begun pushing through the gorse.

“My mother,” Cory said. “You want to know . . .”

He seemed loath to complete the sentence.

“Cory, I want to know why you lied to me. I want to know why she’s not being properly cared for. I want—”

“She’s being properly cared for.” He hadn’t spoken so sharply since the incident at the gate; he recalled himself quickly and softened his tone. “I know it looks bad, but whatever else you blame me for, you have to understand that she’s there of her own accord. Yes, she’s bedridden, but it’s the illness that’s holding her prisoner, not me.”

The footpath met a stile, which took us away from the sea and into the woods again. Through the trees I spied the fading greens of the garden and the blank walls of the house. Back again, I thought. A few moments beyond the boundaries—a stolen glimpse of the outside world—and back again to Byrne Hall.

“Home!” There was real—if tentative—pleasure in Cory’s voice, as he picked up my hand and kissed it. He said, “My mother would rather die at Byrne Hall than eke out her last days in some institution.”

“Which is all well and good,” I retorted, “but why not tell me that in the first place? Why lie?”

I looked at his familiar hand, with its broad knuckles, and fine hairs, and paint-clogged nails. I almost kissed it in return from sheer habit, but I resisted the temptation. I wanted my explanation first.

“It’s cold.” Cory sighed. “Let’s go inside and talk there.”

The cold inside the house was still and stony, instead of fresh and outdoorsy. We wandered the empty galleries for a while, but Cory must have moved the sofa and chair when he polished the floors yesterday, and there was nowhere to sit.

We ended up side by side on the dark stairs.

“So . . . ?”

“I’ve always been protective of her,” Cory began.

“Of your mother? Because your father . . . ?”

He nodded and looked away. “You’ve probably gathered that he wasn’t the best of husbands. It was a pretty one-sided bargain from the start, actually: she was beautiful, popular, wealthy, clever, and the rest; he was none of those things. OK, I suppose he was fairly good-looking, but basically I reckon he was just a posh man with a big house, in need of funds.”