It wasn’t one of Lilly’s; her cards are a distinctive peach colour, never mind their scent. My next thought was of the poetess, Edie Dyer. But no, the spidery handwriting belonged to my youngest brother, Sebastian. Come home, the script read. I set off without bothering to search for an umbrella, and slogged up the hill in the rain. My hair was matted with sweat by the time I made Bright House. My coat and hat were sodden, my boots filthy. I kicked them off at the door and left damp footprints across the tiles as I made my way to the music room. For a moment I stood outside the door listening. There was no pattern to my brother’s playing; it was just so many notes strung together around pauses. I entered the room. I skirted the pianoforte and Sebastian looked up at me and smiled bleakly and did not stop playing, which irked me: had I rushed up the hill through the rain for no reason? I spoke over the music. ‘Your note?’ ‘I …’ he started.
