“Oh, my God! What have you done?”

You help me undress and wrap me in a warm blanket. You stoke up the fire. Then you fetch water and a cloth from the kitchen and bathe the cuts on my head. You talk as you work.

“Why didn’t you come to me? I can’t bear to think what might have happened.”

Now that you have something practical to do you seem not to mind that I do not reply. When you have finished dressing my wounds you fetch a bottle of brandy from the sideboard, and pour some into a glass.

“Drink this. It will help.”

You lift the glass to my lips. I take a sip.

“I never imagined that you—I thought I was the only one who contemplated ending it all.”

You let me catch my breath for a moment then lift the glass to my lips again.

“I always picture you happy—in the center of things.”

The brandy is beginning to take effect. Thoughts of Julian, Quentin, Angelica surface in my mind. I try to speak.

“Will you promise me . . . ?”

My voice is hoarse and you bend nearer.

“Dearest, anything.”

“No, this is important.”

It is painful to talk but I make myself continue.

“I want you to promise me that you will never tell anyone about this. I couldn’t bear for the children to know. Or Duncan.”

I pause.

“Promise me. That you will tell no one. Not even Leonard.”

You clasp my hand.

“I promise—if you agree to promise something in return.”

Your words catch me off-guard. I look at you and see that your eyes are full of tears.

“I want you to swear that no matter what happens—no matter how terrible life is—you will never try anything like this again.”

I nod. There is nothing in your tone to signal the import of the pact we are making.

Angelica kneels on the bed at my side. She has a tray in front of her, on which she has assembled an assortment of lipsticks, crayons, pots of powder, brushes. I feel the soft stroke of her fingers as she begins to work the colors over my face. She giggles as she applies patches of red, bars of pink, great blue stripes. She is re-creating me anew.