Images of Roger dance before me. I remember his energy, the bright music of his voice. I think how I spurned his love, took his friendship for granted. Suddenly I am screaming. I snap my eyes shut and dare not open them. I sense that if I do the light will destroy me. Though my eyelids are as frail as a moth’s wings they are all that keep me from annihilation. I am terrified that at any moment they will blink open and I will be punished for my crime.

I become aware of your presence. You see that I am awake and come instantly to my side.

“Dearest, how are you feeling? Is there anything you would like?”

I shake my head.

“You’ve given us all a terrible fright.”

I think of Duncan, the children, and try to speak. You pat my hand.

“Shh. Don’t talk just yet. You need to drink something.”

You take a glass from the tray by my bed and raise it to my lips. I gulp the water gratefully.

“There. That will help.”

You put the glass back and sit beside me.

“How long have I been like this?” I whisper.

“Two days. You collapsed on the terrace and we decided the best thing would be to keep you here.”

I clasp your arm.

“I can’t bear the thought that I’ll never be able to talk to him again.”

“I know.”

You search in your pocket and pull out a letter. I recognize Roger’s handwriting.

“I’ve been reading his last letter. He wrote it after staying with you at Charleston.” You take the sheets of paper out of their envelope. “He writes about you . . . the unique atmosphere you create round you—he says the beauty of your way of life sustains him.”

I want to ask to see the letter but it is too soon. Instead, I gaze at the book lying open on your chair.

“Will you read to me?”

I hold on to your voice as you relate the story of Persephone’s marriage to Hades. I imagine Demeter’s desperate search for her daughter and the bargain struck with Zeus, then Persephone emerging from the Underworld, her eyes blinking against the vehemence of the light. I picture the pomegranate she carries in her hand, plucked from Hades’ garden as she is set free. Was it a memento of her stay in the Underworld, I wonder, or a provision against Demeter having everything her own way?

I can lie to my daughter no longer. This is the thought that has been gathering force in my mind all day. I walk round the garden and watch a solitary blackbird peck for worms on the grass.