I look at the line. I remember painting it, sensing that the swirls of blue required an anchoring point.

“I’m not sure I meant anything in particular by it, though of course I’ve no objection to you seeing it as a lighthouse.” I pick up the pot and pour two cups of tea. You continue to examine the tile.

“But if it isn’t a lighthouse—or indeed anything specific—why is it there?”

I add milk to the tea and pass you one of the cups. There is a bloodcurdling shriek from outside the window and I glance up. The garden appears deserted.

“The blue needed it, the pattern needed it. It gives the eye something to rest on.”

You allow me no time to draw breath.

“So you want to include your onlooker?”

“Of course. Though I’m not sure I’m predominantly thinking about my audience as I paint.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Though actually I worry I don’t think enough about my reader. When I write I do so because it gives me an opportunity to go further into something—a chance to enter what I would otherwise be excluded from. Whereas you—if I understand you correctly—must confront the opposite problem. You are already inside, and your challenge is to find a point of perspective for those who are outside your work.”

I stand up.

“You make too much of what I’m doing. I paint first and foremost . . . so as not to feel.”

I have said enough. I pick up my shawl and resolve to look for the boys. Before I can do so Leonard comes in from the garden.

“Did you find them?” My words jerk out too quickly. Leonard’s face sets in a frown as he shakes his head. I sense his disapproval of the boys’ unruly play. I pour a third cup of tea as he seats himself next to you. He winds your scarf more closely about you, and his fingers linger on your neck. You catch hold of his hand and kiss his palm. I peer down at my cup. The thought of the solitary bed I must go to each night rises to haunt me. There is a rattle of stones against the window. I look up and see a face.

“Thoby!”

You stare at me, an expression of vexed disbelief on your face. I get up and cross to the window. Quentin appears in the doorway, his hair disheveled, a wooden sword in his hand. His brother troops in behind him.