Cory’s approach to work was more energetic than mine, and over the next few days his first attempts began to appear on the walls. The effect was discreet to begin with—a few small drawings tacked above the fireplace—but he added to them every morning as his style became quicker and bolder, and they began to spread across the room. He didn’t ask what I made of them and I was glad of that, because I wasn’t sure how I’d answer. Perhaps I’d say that I admired his diligence, because the more he worked, the more precisely he’d learn to observe me.

I swung my towel over my shoulder and crouched beside the mattress, wishing I had any talent at all for drawing. Cory was beautiful—no question. The scars on his arms troubled me, because he wouldn’t say why he had cut himself, only that it had been a long, long time ago. When we were lying together I liked to stroke the insides of his arms to show that I understood, even though I didn’t. Last night I’d told him it was my final couple of days at Byrne Hall; that I had to go back to work after the weekend or lose my job. It was no surprise that my voice had wobbled, but his response had been equally emotional—in all its hair-tugging, nail-chewing, miserable silence—and it was because of those scars on his arms that I’d been frightened as well as flattered.

I watched his stillness for several minutes and came as close to touching him without disturbing him as I dared, which is to say I gathered my hair out of the way and kissed the empty air half an inch above his swollen eyelids.

It was a Saturday, and the gardens had been hired for an early autumn wedding party. There’d been workmen in last week, mowing the lawns and tidying the flower beds, but the canopy still needed sprucing up, and even at this early hour there were people milling about on the lawns with their arms full of cleaning equipment and folded tables. A car was parked on the driveway with its doors wide open, stuffed from top to bottom with ferns, peonies, and yellow roses.