An electric heater burned against the wall, thickening the air of the sickroom and making it glow. A row of scented candles was alight on the dressing table, but even the combined efforts of jasmine and sandalwood could not mask the stench of disinfectant and sickness. I recognised the stiff red shoes under the bed, and the hump of the body underneath the sheets, and the curled hand across the pillow.

When I stepped onto the rickety floor, the hand tightened involuntarily. I froze, but she didn’t stir again, and when I took another step—purposefully pressing down on the board this time, willing her to wake and see me—there was no response. I loitered at the foot of the bed, peering round and searching the room for clues, as if there might be some trace of what she’d said—what she’d almost said—about Stella, hanging from the walls or lurking among the furniture.

Diana’s room was smaller than mine or Cory’s, and most of the space was taken up by a bed, a dressing table, and a huge mahogany wardrobe. It didn’t feel like summer up here, it felt like autumn—and late autumn at that—what with the light so dim through the trees and the electric heater on full blast.

It was untidy, like Cory’s studio, but the effect was oppressive rather than magical. The walls were covered in sun-bleached papers: a child’s drawings, a child’s handprints, a child’s handwriting exercises. School photos. College photos. Exam certificates. Music awards. I moved in closer, looking for something without knowing what. I touched the corner of one of the papers, pressing it onto the Blu-Tack so it made a fragile, crackling sound.

My Mama, it said, in faded felt-tip. My Mama is nise. My mamma is kind. She bys me things. My mmam mem mama loves me best. Cory Byrne. Class 2b. Underneath the writing there was a picture of a stick woman with a huge head and a red smile.

There was a more sophisticated drawing above that, in grey pencil, showing a woman in an evening gown and long gloves. “Mother” by Cory Byrne. August 12th, 1999. Her hair was thick and glossy, piled high on her head and studded with jewels. She had an indulgent and secretive smile, and I’d never have guessed she was Diana if it weren’t for the inscription.