“Byrne Hall?”

Cory nodded. “We still had money in those days. All my mother’s friends were artists—or in the art world—and they used to stay here whenever my father was away. It was still crammed with treasures in those days—Persian rugs and harpsichords, and God knows what—and everyone was always drinking, and playing music, and working. They were probably off their heads half the time, in and out of each other’s beds, but I don’t remember any unhappiness—I just remember the laughter, and the stupid games and the indoor picnics. They used to do impromptu exhibitions in the downstairs rooms, and there were parties that went on for weeks . . .”

He trailed off.

Whenever my father was away, I thought, although what I actually said was, “I bet they made a pet of you?”

“I suppose. But my mother was the main event; she was the one they all adored.”

The idyll—the memory of it—played across his face in light and shadow.

“And then . . . ?” I ventured.

“The money ran out,” he said, matter-of-factly, “and my mother got ill.”

“And . . . what about your father?”

Cory retreated into himself and shook his head. He was quiet for so long that I began to worry my question had annoyed him, but he was simply far away, his thumb swirling around the clean page, making hidden pictures.

“How would you like me to sit?” I spoke carefully, afraid of making him jump.

“Sit?” Cory resurfaced. “Oh, sit however you like. You need to be comfortable, though.”

There was a double mattress in the darkest corner of the room; a shadowy tumble of pillows and duvet that I’d noticed when I first came in and avoided looking at since. Cory turned to it now, chewing his lip.

“Why don’t you lie down?” he said. “You’ll feel less constrained that way, and it doesn’t matter to me if you doze off.”

I straightened the bedding and lay down awkwardly on my side. Cory placed a couple of tall candles near my head, and a whole cluster of tea lights on the floor. Every time he turned his back I adjusted my posture slightly, or itched my nose, or fidgeted with some detail of my dress. He caught me at it, of course, and laughed.

“Here.” He raised my face by half an inch and slid my hand beneath it. He arranged the fingers of my other hand so that they were curled under my chin, and he stroked my fringe away from my forehead and laid a lock of hair across my shoulder. I was tense to start with, but he was patient and light of touch, and knew exactly what he wanted. I breathed into the jumble of sheets, silently coaxing my muscles into looseness as he worked his fingers round the crook of my left knee, bending it toward him.

By the time he was finished, I’d softened under his hands like a lump of wax, and my body felt warm and drowsy. This was precisely the position I would adopt if I were trying to go to sleep—one arm across my chest, the other cushioning my head, and my legs a little bent at hip and knee. The candlelight was heavy and still in that corner of the room, far from the draughty window, and I hoped it beautified me the way it beautified him: making his eyes gleam and turning his skin the colour of set honey.