I was glad. It had been on my mind since November; it was the reason I kept buying copies of the Times and checking the obituary pages. Until I knew Diana was dead, she risked living on in my mind, fading forever whilst never quite fading to nothing.

“I wonder what will become of Byrne Hall?” Maggie mused, but I wouldn’t be drawn on that.

I pushed the park gate open and walked between the empty flower beds, from one pool of lamplight to the next. My breath formed clouds in front of my face, so that I seemed to be walking through a mist that waxed and waned.

After a while I sat down on a bench beside the pond. Even in the lamplight, the water looked ugly and brown, and there were crisp packets and takeaway cartons floating in the reeds.

I glanced at my phone and noticed I’d missed a call from Tom while I was talking to Maggie. In a moment, I would ring him back. I held the prospect like a bright jewel in my hand, and closed my eyes.

Please understand: the nostalgia I gave in to that evening wasn’t for the autumn that had passed. I didn’t want to go back; I didn’t miss Cory; I never remembered his kisses and thought, Perhaps, despite everything . . .

It was just that sometimes my heart would snag on an old idea of Byrne Hall. I’d catch an imaginary whiff of salt air, or a glint of sun-dappled green, or a flash of white stone, and I would ache—not for the actual place, or the time, or the man—but for the elusive dream I’d gone there with, the poems I’d meant to write, and the person I’d imagined becoming.

I drew a jagged breath and stood up. A scent of snow was in the air, mixed with pondweed and stale chips. In a moment I would speak to Tom, and we would carry on making plans. Evening would turn to night as I made my way home, night would turn to day as I slept, the world—the real world—would move forward as it should, and I would be a part of it.

I pulled my jumper over my chin for warmth and stuck my hands in my pockets. As I began to walk, I felt that the earth was good and solid beneath my feet.

Acknowledgments

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My heartfelt thanks to the following people, without whose help The Whispering House would never have seen the light of day: my agent in the UK, Joanna Swainson, for her unfailing help and enthusiasm, and my lovely US agent, Sarah Levitt.

The wonderful team at Tin House: first and foremost my editor Masie Cochran, but also Win McCormack, Craig Popelars, Nanci McCloskey, Molly Templeton, Yashwina Canter, Diane Chonette, Jakob Vala, Elizabeth DeMeo, Alyssa Ogi, Becky Kraemer, and Allison Dubinsky.