Her eyes widen, she represses a smile. Feeling interrogated, I can tell, but she doesn’t mind. In fact—her back straightens slightly—she’s going to give an account of herself.

“I believe in the beeches in Pipehouse Wood,” she begins. “I can’t think of anything more sensible than to worship them. And the chalk-downs flora on Beacon Hill. I believe we go into the earth and disintegrate.” She pauses before continuing. “And then—how do I put this—bits of us turn into bits of other living things. A piece of moss, or a beech leaf, or an orchid. Or a raindrop. Which is as it should be, because we only come together in the first place, via a few links in the chain, from pieces of moss and beech leaves and rain. And it never stops, all through time.”

“Well.” I gulp down my sherry. “That’s the Resurrection demolished!”

She seems very close to me, in this chilly, untended garden.

“Yes, unfortunately.” Her voice is light. “But not the Life!”

But not the Life. She’s beautiful. What she says is beautiful. She has floored me. I look up, helpless, seeking refuge in the sky, but the thin hazy cloud lets a lot of glare through. It’s hard on the eyes.

—

I take too long to compose myself. Before I can speak, another party guest has presented herself at my side. She’s a chum of Althea’s by the name of Margaret Dennis, headmistress of Upton Hall School. “Lovely party, James. Couldn’t get near you to say hello, goodbye, or how d’you do!”

I meet Margaret often at the lodge, when I’m invited for what she and Althea like to call, with a great deal of amusement, an Evening of Brahms and Liszt. They take their shoes off, serve out hefty tumblers of malt, and we pay serious, silent attention to one of Margaret’s huge collection of classical records. She’s a forthright, mountain-moving sort of person, thoroughly likable and just now unbelievably unwelcome.

I reply with forced cheer. “Is that what makes for a lovely party, Margaret? Hazardous overcrowding?”

“Yes, dear. One of the things, anyway. Now, may I borrow Ellen?”

As if she was mine to lend. “By all means. I’ve just spotted Mr. Kennet. I’ve been wanting to ask him about my fruit trees.” I have two, a wizened cherry and a reluctant pear, but at this moment I couldn’t care less about them. Ellen, who looks as taken aback as I feel, gives me an anguished glance. I sketch a wave and remove myself. With any luck Margaret will release her soon.

William is under the pear tree with Althea Brock, in conversation with a man I don’t know. Lady Brock, seated on the garden bench, is next to a woman in a wheelchair who raises one hand as I approach. The gesture’s familiar.