I am not sure when I stop listening. I am not even certain I have remembered the conversation accurately or if it is my own tortured brain supplying the phrases. All I know is that at some point I fold my knitting and quietly slip out of the room. I climb the stairs and wish that the thin sliver of moon I can see hanging outside the landing window would pick me up and spirit me away. I go into my room and lie on my bed. I bury my head in the pillow, letting the coolness of the cotton seep into my brow. Images flicker on the closed screen of my eyelids. The drawn lines of Duncan’s face as he knelt before the fire, your arm tucked in Leonard’s as you disappeared down the drive with the boys dancing beside you. I curl my fingers into fists, clasp my legs to my chest. How long I remain like this I cannot say.

There is a tap and a light in the doorway. Reluctantly I open my eyes. Duncan kneels on the floor beside my bed and strokes my hair.

“Nessa.” His voice pulses with remorse. “I do love you. You know that.”

I cannot bear to answer. Instead, I grasp his hand and bring it to my lips. I know that now, if I ask him, he will come into my bed. I pull back the cover. We are gentle with each other and when we have finished I lie motionless in his arms. I gaze at the moon through the uncurtained window, thankful for this truce.

I lean over the compartments of type and watch while you select the letters. You place each letter upside down at the bottom of the tray. When you come to the end of the line you set a strip of lead above the letters, positioning it carefully before you start the next row.

“It’s actually rather restful, once you get used to it,” you say as you show me the finished phrase. I try to decipher the upside-down words. I marvel at the swiftness of your fingers as you tip the letters out of the tray and return them to their separate boxes. I envy your look of calm absorption.

“Of course,” you continue, “we had a terrible time getting the machine to work. All we had was an instruction manual and Leonard’s rudimentary knowledge of mechanics.”

I picture you and Leonard poring over the manual together, hugging each other in triumph as you remove the first printed page from the press.

“So what sort of books will you print?” I ask.

You laugh.

“That all depends on how quickly we can master the art! At the moment we’re thinking about one of Katherine’s stories and a small collection of poems by Tom. Perhaps some essays. We’re starting with two stories, one by Leonard and one by me.”