There. I’m on stage at a folk festival in Fitzhenry Park, Amy on pipes, Matt on guitar. The audience is having a great time, bobbing their heads, some of them step dancing with more enthusiasm than skill, while right in front of the stage, there’s a small pack of whirling dervishes flinging themselves about with an abandon that few people seem to manage without drink or drugs. And in the middle of them is Jilly, grinning up at me whenever she whirls about to face my direction.

There. A poetry reading of Wendy’s, where we’re sitting through some terrible poets before it’s Wendy’s turn to read. Jilly keeps pressing her thumb on the table, pushing an imaginary button that will open an equally imaginary trapdoor under those well-meaning souls who are boring us from the stage.

There. The wistful joy on Jilly’s face as we lean on a chain-link fence in a playground, watching her goddaughter Jillian being pushed on a swing by her foster mother.

There. At the opening of one of her shows, grinning and giving me a thumb’s up when another painting is sold.

There. At Zinc’s funeral. Her hand holding tightly onto mine as though I’m all that can keep her in this world.

There. Sitting in a diner at four in the morning, watching her eat a massive breakfast of pancakes, bacon, and eggs—the sheer happy gusto with which she puts away her food.

There . . .

And there . . .

And . . .

—I realized that I couldn’t imagine living in a world without her.

One of the hardest things about moving to L.A. with Tanya had been having my relationship with Jilly relegated to only phone calls and letters. I was suddenly cut off from my best friend. But we hadn’t been that close since I got back, either, and I could feel the ache of that in me now. It was always there. I just hadn’t realized what it was until this moment.

But this wasn’t what I was supposed to be focusing on.

I looked into Galfreya’s eyes and saw surprise and understanding there, but I wasn’t sure what she was surprised about, or what exactly she understood. Surely she’d already known what good friends Jilly and I were?

“And the other woman?” she asked, her voice low.

I didn’t have much for Lizzie, having only just met her, but I called up what I did. Mostly it centered around the joy of our playing together last night, the music of our fiddles entwining with such easy familiarity that we could have been doing it for years instead of just one night.

“Maybe you should get some memories from Siobhan,” I said, as Galfreya gave my hand a squeeze and then let go.

“No, I have enough,” she said.