In every version I kiss him right back, and it’s almost like the last scene in a movie—except that there’s an old woman curled up on the bed, and her fingers are twitching restlessly on top of the sheets.

Part Two

PART TWO

Stella: October 2009

STELLA

October 2009

The two halves of the painting lie on the floor next to the old iron bedstead, and Stella sits with her back against the wall, staring at them. It feels as if she’s been sitting like this forever. The first, fast-breathing minutes have become glassy-eyed hours; the hours have become days. She dozes and wakes, and even when she wakes during the night the painting is strangely visible. Its palest parts—the face and hands—seem to glow in the dark.

It’s drizzling and the window is open a couple of inches—as wide as it will go—teasing her with the leafy scent and patter of water she cannot reach. Byrne Hall is like that. It’s a cruel house. Even these neglected attic rooms are cruel. She used to wonder vaguely about the servants who slept here a hundred years ago and more—whether they resented the low ceilings and tiny windows; whether they craved more light and air—but she’s too scared for herself now to spare a thought for them. It’s nearly a whole day since she last had a drink. Her tongue feels big and furry, as if her mouth’s been stuffed with flannel, and it hurts to listen to the swish of the sea below the garden.

Now that darkness is falling, Stella can no longer hear the ravens in the tall trees at the front of the house. Actually, she’s not sure they’re ravens—they might be rooks or crows. At any rate, they’re black, hunched, witchy birds that caw and clatter. She tends to assume that’s what they are because Byrne is a Gaelic word for raven—that’s the first thing she learnt when she arrived in the summer, all blithe and wide-eyed. “Oh, I love that it means raven!” she’d cried. “Wow—Raven Hall! I love that—that is so Gothic!”

Stella reaches out with one foot and moves the two halves of the picture together so that she can see the whole face. The question is whether she should mend it or tear it to shreds. It is The Question. It’s one of those life-and-death choices you’re only supposed to get in fairy tales—a riddle, a judgment, a fingerpost—and the sensible answer may not be correct. The act of rash insanity may not be wrong.