“Are you all right?” she was saying from a long way off, and someone further down the table, I think it was my cousin, the groom, said, “What’s up with Freya?”

I tried to shove my chair back, but it was wedged into place, and there was no escape to left or right. With a slippery twist and an apology I sank under the table, into the dim forest of shins and shoes. The two little girls were crouched in conference over a hoard of crumpled napkins, their satin dresses gleaming in the half-light, but they fell silent as I pushed past. White spots were floating in front of my eyes, and the racket inside my head was getting louder and louder. I crawled the length of the table, feeling for the strip of matting where the canopy ended and the lawn began, and as soon as I had grass underneath my fingers I staggered to my feet, picked up my skirts, and ran. I made it as far as the rose garden before my insides flung me forward and doubled me up.

Once I’d finished being sick, I knelt with my head bent over the fizzing soil and hoped the other guests hadn’t seen. I moaned and shut my eyes and wiped my hand across my dripping lips.

The front door was still standing open. It was the first thing I noticed, over the tousled heads of the roses, when I was well enough to look up.

I sat back on my heels and stared at it. There was something so absolute about the blackness of that interior; it made me want something I couldn’t put a name to—not quite sleep, or water, or coolness, but something larger that encompassed all those things. It was like the blackness of space, without any stars. It was also, of course, off-limits to wedding guests: not only was there the sign across the porch, but there’d been a reminder in bold italics at the bottom of the wedding invitation, and the best man had reiterated the message on the coach, as we were leaving the church. “The family” was in residence at present, he’d said. We were asked to be respectful of their magnificent gardens and to remember, if we remembered nothing else, that the house itself was out of bounds.

I kicked my shoes off and left them lying in the grass. A piece of china smashed, far away in the canopy, and there was a whooping cry, followed by a burst of group laughter. I glanced over my shoulder as I walked, in case I could spot Dad, but the sea was so painfully bright that I had to look away again.

I hoisted my skirts to my knees and scrambled up the bank that separated my tier of lawn from the sweep of gravel in front of Byrne Hall. The little stones at the top were sharp against my feet, and I picked my way slowly to the door.