If I was going to be a liar, I might as well be wholehearted about it. Cory was sharp, and if I tried to send her a private “look,” he would sense it. He returned the pressure on my hand.

“And you’re definitely all right?” Maggie insisted, scrutinising our linked hands, my clothes, and finally my face.

“I couldn’t be better. We’re really excited, aren’t we?” I turned to Cory. “The exhibition opens this evening.”

“Did you get my texts?”

“Your texts? Oh Maggie, I’m sorry, I lost my phone.”

She nodded slowly.

“Right.”

Cory seemed to have frozen.

“I don’t think we’ve any other news,” I said. “How about you, Maggie? Are you well? Have you been swimming lately?”

“Swimming? . . . No.”

Cory lifted my fingers and touched them with his lips. Maggie wheeled round, as if she couldn’t stand the sight of us any longer, and I can’t say I blamed her. I would have let go his hand at that point, but his grip was strong and I couldn’t pull free without a tussle.

The hall was crammed with paraphernalia for the evening—floral pedestals, trestle tables, white tablecloths, boxes of champagne flutes on loan from the off-licence—and it smelled brightly of polish and paint. Maggie lingered. I’d grown used to thinking of her as a spark of light in a place of shadows—the only person in this strange world who wanted me to speak, and breathe, and be free—and that’s why I needed her to go away now. She was too nice for me and Cory; too straightforward for Byrne Hall.

“OK.” She knotted her scarf. “Well. So. I suppose I ought to get going?”

It was a question for me—my last chance—and all I could do was smile a flavourless smile and wave. My other hand seemed to have melded with Cory’s.

“Good to see you, Maggie,” he piped up, finding his voice at last. “Take care.”

Once she’d gone we unfolded the trestle tables and covered them with the white cloths. I set the glasses out in rows, while Cory positioned the floral arrangements and tested the rewired chandeliers for the hundredth time. His shoulders were squared and his swagger was back; he was brimming with a good feeling that he didn’t know how to give voice to.

I set out the final glass, adjusted the lines until they were straight, and stood back to judge the effect.

“Brilliant,” Cory said. “You’ve made a brilliant job of that.”

“Of what?” I tried to rid my smile of weariness. “Of setting the glasses out? Or of giving Maggie the cold shoulder?”

He kept shooting little looks at me; shy glances that made my heart ache unexpectedly. I grieved for the Freya I’d been back in September, when I thought Cory was my route back to life.

“Wait there,” he said.