“This ought to be a nice day,” I said. “It’s good to be out of London for a while.”

I didn’t mean to sound irritable, but how often did Dad and I get the chance to step out of our ordinary lives? Here we were in a garden by the sea, tipsy on wine and sunshine and flowers in bloom, and all we could think about was my dead sister. It wouldn’t have been so bad if we’d been able to discuss her in a gentle way—I miss her; she’d have loved it here; imagine if she’d been a bridesmaid too, wouldn’t we have looked a pair?—but it wasn’t possible to think, let alone talk, about my sister in that way.

I pressed Dad’s arm. “Stop worrying,” I said, addressing our watery shadows. “That Uncle Whatever-His-Name-Is: he probably doesn’t have a clue who we are. I bet he’s never even heard of Stella.”

There. I’d said her name out loud. It dropped through the space between us, with a whistle and a thunk, and we both flinched. I hated how that always happened. Sometimes I’d say her name accidentally on purpose, in the middle of a conversation, just to make us both hear it. One day, I thought, we’d get used to it, and be able to talk about her in a free and easy way, and she would belong to us again. I would be able to say “Stella” and move lightly on, instead of feeling like I’d drawn a curtain across the sun.

Dad poked me with his elbow as he patted his jacket pockets in search of cigarettes and lighter. He was usually furtive about his smoking habit because he knew I’d tell him off, but he didn’t even pretend today, and I didn’t say a word. I wouldn’t have minded one myself. I was still holding that glass of prosecco, and I took a gulp while he was lighting up.

“Byrne Hall,” he said meditatively, after he’d taken his first puff.

We looked up the tiered lawns to the pale, pillared house. Wedding guests weren’t allowed inside—we were under strict instructions not to stray beyond the gardens—but it made a beautiful backdrop, especially on a hot summer day like today. It was rather austere, with its three identical rows of windows and the severe symmetry of its columns and chimneys, but the framing trees and sunlight served to soften the effect. I couldn’t have told you what style or era it belonged to, except that it put me in mind of Jane Austen TV adaptations; later I discovered it was three hundred years old and built in the Queen Anne style. I thought about the person I’d be if this were my home—the expansive way in which I’d live, and move, and think; the poetry I’d write; the light and freshness that would saturate my soul.

“I remember that house,” said Dad. “I remember seeing it in the distance, when they took me to the cliffs in the coastguard boat, and one of the policemen said, ‘That’s Byrne Hall, that is; our local stately home,’ and I said, ‘Oh yes? Nice place!’”