My fingers played along the inside of his arm, skimming the razor scars. He stiffened momentarily but didn’t shake me off.

“There was no one to talk to; she couldn’t seem to tolerate anyone other than me. That’s how I started drawing portraits, actually; it was something to do while I kept her company. She didn’t want to do anything herself, or go anywhere, or see anyone, but she was happy to sit still for hours on end.”

“So she never even left the house?”

“Rarely. She came to visit me a couple of times when I went to art college, but I could tell it made her uneasy. The trouble was, people were so interested in her—people in the art world, anyway. If she turned up at an exhibition, say, there’d be sidelong looks and whispers, and she just couldn’t cope with that.” He sighed. “Well. I chucked in my course anyway, after a few months, and came home.”

“Would she not get any help?”

“She wouldn’t admit there was anything wrong until she got ill—physically ill, I mean. At least after she was diagnosed she accepted some help.”

“When was that?”

“About five years ago. I’ve looked after her ever since, and I have to say, she’s not been a demanding patient. Not exactly. All she wants is to be at home with me, and for everyone else to stay away.”

“Everyone else . . .” I said. “Cory, that’s an awful lot to ask of you. I wish you’d told me all this in the beginning.”

“I know, I’m sorry. It was . . . it seemed easier.”

Now that he was calm, I thought, it was just possible he might understand my reasons for wanting to leave. I opened my mouth to explain, but he got in first.

“Freya?”

“What is it?”

“I think we should go and see her now.”

“Together? But—”

“I want her to see you. I want her to know that you’re here, and that you’re different.”

“Different from . . . ?”

He hesitated.

“Just . . . different from other people.”

While Cory tidied trays and counted out pills, I loitered by the bed. Diana’s face was small and grey in the daylight, like an old photograph that’s fading to nothing, and I told myself I wasn’t frightened of her anymore.

I opened the window even though the air was dank and chilly. A match rasped as Cory lit the scented candles and moved them to the bedside table. It seemed intrusive to turn and stare, so I fiddled with the latch and pretended to look at the trees.