I stare at your letter, then fold it in two and put it back in my pocket. I rest my elbows on the windowsill and look out over the garden. Something about your tone rings false. Julian’s head emerges for a moment from behind one of the currant bushes and I wave at him. He grins at me before disappearing back out of sight. I do not understand why you have canceled your visit. I have planned a surprise birthday party for you, and now all my preparations are in vain. I let your phrases beat round my head, trying to catch their hidden message. It is all Leonard: his article for the Nation, his rally for the Russians, his government committee. Whichever way I turn your words, their meaning is the same. Leonard takes precedence over me.

Sometimes love comes instantly, with blinding certainty; sometimes it is a sea mist slowly enveloping the view, until one is hard-pressed to remember the features of the shore.

When did I stop seeing Duncan as my brother’s lover and begin to fall in love with him myself? I think it was that very first weekend, when Adrian brought him to Asheham, and I watched him painting in the garden. I had never known Adrian with a lover before and the sight was strangely unnerving. I felt a sharp stab of jealousy as I glimpsed the two of them kissing from my studio window.

The next morning I set my own easel alongside Duncan’s on the grass. I studied him as I mixed my colors. There was an intensity about his concentration that communicated itself. I seemed to see more clearly as I looked past him toward my chosen subject. As I began to paint, our movements fell into the same pattern. There was no rivalry, only the shared sense of a common pursuit. Not since those far-off days with Thoby in the nursery had I felt so at one with another human being. I could not help falling in love.