An electric hum, a quiver of light, then everything steadied and I found myself standing in front of a three-quarter-length portrait. I didn’t gasp or cover my mouth with my hands. It wasn’t like that. Recognition crept up on me doubtfully, bit by bit, and even before the bulb popped and the picture flashed back into darkness, I couldn’t make up my mind whether this was a portrait of my dead sister or just a picture of a girl with red hair whom I was naturally inclined—given the circumstances, and at least four glasses of wine—to identify as her.

It wasn’t a particularly good portrait, whoever the subject might be. I mean, it was all right. Seven out of ten, B-plus, averagely competent. In terms of symmetry and proportion it was fine, but as a whole it lacked vitality. The eyes were large, lustreless almonds, the nose minimal, the lips overripe and overpink. It was an adolescent picture. An unimaginative man’s idea of what a pretty woman amounted to: no greater than the sum of her parts, and perhaps a little less. I looked for the hands—Stella used to have long, tapering fingers with blunt, square nails—but there was a gap, a glaring absence on her lap, where they ought to be.

The light went out with a waspish buzz and I was left in the dark, recollecting the picture as best I could; poring over the afterimage on my retinas. There wasn’t a single feature that proved it was her, yet I reached out and touched the surface, running my fingers over its uneven scraps and torn edges. I liked the ripped-up effect; I liked the way those fissures and the seeping of glue caught the light in odd ways and gave the picture a mystery it otherwise lacked. It supplied the dull-eyed girl with something like a soul; distancing her from the world, as if she were observing us all through a coarse-grained veil.

“Stella,” I said aloud, into the darkness, and the house responded to my appeal with a stir and a creak. I spun round and peered upward, in search of the sound. There was a gallery leading off from the staircase, but all I could make out were clustering shadows and a rough sketch of bannisters. I hooked a stray lock of hair over my ear and smiled faintly, although it was difficult to come across as nonchalant when you weren’t quite sure which way to face. The sensible thing would be to shout “Hello?” but that was impossible. I couldn’t bear to hear my own voice reaching out into this big, black space and echoing back again, all husky and small.

I moved out of the block of sunlight and sat down on the floor beside the staircase. This was much better. I was disembodied again—a wraith in a dress of green shadows. Nobody would notice me here. I hiccupped as I squinted toward the open door, my breath tasting of alcohol and sourness. The sun was sinking into the sea now, and the view made my head hurt; it looked less like a garden and more like a heap of gold that had been set on fire. I didn’t want to go back to the party and pretend to be amused by risqué speeches. I much preferred to lie down here, with a cold tile against my ear.