I didn’t risk pressing call until I reached the third floor—Diana’s floor—but even that felt too exposed, so I slipped up the attic staircase as it started to ring and felt my way to the top. The cold was different up here—more airy and mobile than below—and the rain was loud on the roof.

“Freya! It’s you!”

“It’s me!”

“It’s so wonderful to hear your voice! Are you all right? How’s it going?”

Tom’s voice was huge and too happy. I walked the length of the corridor and ducked into the room where Cory had dumped his Stella portraits.

“It’s awful,” I whispered. “Oh Tom, it’s awful. I wish you were here. I wish—”

I caught my toe on something sharp, and when I crouched to rub the pain away, the phone’s glow caught on the intricate, gluey lines of the mosaic, torn from its golden frame and flung on the floor. I could just make out the fracture lines across my sister’s cheek and nose.

“Why? What’s happened?” asked Tom. “You’re all right, aren’t you?”

The fear in his voice was thrilling to me; a thing of weight and value.

“Freya, say something.”

“I’m here, I’m fine, but—”

“What’s going on? I thought it was the opening tonight? Is your dad not there with Zoë?”

“Yes, yes, they’re here, but Dad’s acting strange, like I’ve done something wrong, and Cory’s paintings . . .”

“What about them? Freya, what is it?”

“They’re horrible, Tom. I’ve wanted to tell someone this for so long—”

“Tell someone . . . ?”

“No, not someone. You. I’ve wanted to tell you. They’re such horrible pictures, and I . . . I don’t know . . . I feel so stupid.”

The bedsprings creaked wildly as I sat down. Tom was quiet, listening to my words and silences.

“It’s good to hear your voice again,” he said, with less exuberance and more depth than before.

“It’s good to hear yours, too.”

I smiled sadly down the phone, and pictured him smiling back in much the same way.

“Everything’s gone wrong,” I said, knotting the blanket round my fingers.

“So come home.”

“But you’re going away.”

He started to reply, but then he sighed and fell silent.

The other paintings were still in a heap against the wall: I could just make out the shapes of their various faces and bodies. I counted to ten in my head.

“I’ve been thinking about Stella a lot lately.”

“Oh yes?”

My shoulders relaxed. Talking to Tom was like discovering I had more space to move in than I realised; more fresh air to breathe than I knew.

“Do you remember when she went off to Gainsborough Art College and decided to become a sculptor?”