I set a canvas on my easel. I pick up my brush. I paint falteringly, badly. I force myself to apply one stroke after another, building up my shapes. I do it because I do not know what else to do. I am certain the result will be a failure. I paint the doorway and the open door. I paint a chair and a table on the near side of the door and, directly opposite it, another chair, set against the shrubbery. The door itself I leave in shadow. It is of no interest and too small to fill the space. I come back to my chairs. I work a blue cushion, edged in scarlet, on the garden chair. The brightness emphasizes its vacancy. It is an absurd chair, wedged between the open door and the garden. It looks in instead of out. I make the chair inside the door more elegant. I give it a rounded back, carved legs. I cannot decide on the shade. I try gray, brown, blue. None are right but I do not mind. I determine to leave the color unresolved. I work a darker square on the seat. This time it is a notebook instead of a cushion, the pages clearly visible between the covers. Down the sides of the picture I paint a pair of dark curtains, framing the chairs. I want to highlight their redundancy, draw attention to their feud.

I open the package, surprised to see it addressed in Leonard’s hand. I pull out the pages that are inside and spread them on the table. I see at once that Leonard has altered the setting of my woodcuts. All the instructions I wrote so painstakingly have been ignored. I shake with rage. I will not have my illustrations ruined by Leonard’s poor judgment! I cannot believe you have allowed him to ride roughshod over my designs. I write to you, saying what I think of your arrogance and amateurism. I tell you I never want to work with you or Leonard again.

It is too cold to paint outside so we have taken our easels upstairs, where we can look out across the pond. The bare branches of the willows cast strange reflections on the glassy surface, like witches’ hair. I choose a corner of the garden as my subject, two trees, a segment of wall, the fields and sky beyond. Duncan has set his easel slightly ahead of mine. As I work, I can see the slope of his head and shoulders, the movement of his hand. I find it hard to convey the modulations of the light. I work crimson into the bark of the trees, a ribbon of coral in the grain of the wall. The light shifts again. I add silver and cerulean to the sky. Duncan stops painting and sits down on the bed.

“He’ll marry. I do know that.”

I realize he is talking about Bunny.

“Yes, I suppose he will.”