He could go back to his own room, he supposed, and slip under his covers. Ask for flannel-covered bricks to be sent up. Or he could go to the kitchen, for he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
He wasn’t tired, though, and he wasn’t hungry, though he had been both mere moments ago.
What did he want to do?
The answer rose in him as if it had always been there, just below the surface. It felt logical, even though it was December.
He walked: out of Mother’s room, down the big mahogany stairwell, out the front door.
People saw him. Servants, initially, then Mother and Father andSarah. No one stopped him, though. No one even questioned him.
Outside, he wasn’t cold, though he wore no coat and no shoes.
The walk to the sea from the house generally took thirty minutes, yet he found himself approaching the water in thirty seconds. The moon lit his way, though earlier he’d had the sense of it being a moonless night.
There was something about the lack of shoes, here on the beach, that was familiar.
He stood, staring out at the dark water, at the pinned-up stars above it.
What do I do now?he asked the night.
The answer came not from the night but from inside him.You can do whatever you want.
He went for a swim. The water was warm.
After that extraordinary dream, Effie wrote to Kenver and asked him to pay a visit.
I have recently had occasion to reevaluate a few things about my life, and I should appreciate your counsel. Might I prevail upon you to come as soon as it is convenient?
A few days later, he was receiving the man.
“I’d like to speak some more about the succession,” Effie began.
Kenver made a shushing noise. “May we go somewhere more private?”
“More private than this?” They were alone in a drawing room. Effie glanced at the door through which Mrs. Moyer had retreated. It had been left slightly ajar, but he could close it.
“Yes,” Kenver said, still whispering but emphatic.
“My goodness,” Effie said, gesturing for Kenver to follow him, “one would almost think intrigue was afoot.”
“One can never be too careful.”
“Is everything all right, my lord?”
It was Mrs. Moyer, appearing out of nowhere as the gentlemen mounted the stairs, which Effie supposed was a case in point.
“Yes, indeed. I’m merely taking Mr. Nancarrow upstairs to . . . show him a painting.”
“There is actually a painting in here,” Kenver said, crossing Effie’s bedchamber to the picture of Julianna—placeholder Julianna, impressionistic Julianna—against the chartreuse sky. Effie had not been able to bring himself to take it down. Kenver spent a long moment examining it. “This is extraordinary.”
“Thank you.”
Kenver turned, inquisitive. “You painted it?”
“You needn’t act so surprised.”
“I’m not. Well . . . I am. But it’s because I am only just getting to know you. I didn’t realize you had artistic talent.”
