book, lying back and pretending to read the novel just in case she came in.
She held her breath. A second slam of the door meant that Leah must have found what she’d come in for and gone out again. She sat up, reached for the final letter, and continued reading. “I shall write no more. I must put you out of my mind, for it is the only way. Of course, you came to this sensible conclusion far sooner than I. We can never be. Our lives must—and do—go on, but separately, and I must make the best of it, not wallow in grief. Know that not a day will go by that I will not think of you. My darling, my heart will be forever yours. I like to think that someday you might read these words and understand. R.”
Who was this E. Durrant of Hampstead, and who, here on this island, had been writing to her? And why had the letters never been sent, but were instead tucked away in a suitcase full of clothes? Rachel let the paper rest against the blanket and pondered the possibilities. She felt suddenly melancholy, infected by the lost hope of the last letter.
Seized by a sudden urge to get off the sofa and away from the cloying sadness, she stood up, folding the final letter between the pages of the book with the others, returning them to the suitcase and closing the lid. It was time to explore the rest of the house. Perhaps it might yield further clues?
Rachel tiptoed along a narrow flagstoned hallway, past the bathroom and the stairs—the upper floor was where Leah’s studio was and where, presumably, she also slept—and through to the kitchen at the back of the house. This was as chaotic as the sitting room. A large dresser was heaped with what looked to be mostly junk: fishing reels, an old flowerpot, scissors, a couple of hardback books, jam jars filled with an assortment of nails, an array of mismatched china stacked in teetering piles . . . Their breakfast things sat in the sink, the porridge pan soaking in water. Rachel spied a kettle to one side of a wood-burning range and other cooking utensils hung from a pole suspended from the ceiling. There was no sign of a fridge, or toaster, or any other of the usual modern conveniences, but then that was hardly surprising as the island wasn’t connected to the electricity grid. She was struck again by how isolated it was.
It would be a long five days before she could return to St. Mary’s, though at least Leah didn’t seem too unwelcoming, nor especially loony, despite what Jonah had told her. A little bossy and rather remote, but then who wouldn’t be, living by themselves for years on end?
* * *
Leah reappeared briefly at lunchtime and cut a few slices from a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese, taking it up to her studio, indicating with the minimum amount of words that Rachel could help herself to whatever she found.
After chewing on a slice of bread, Rachel spent a good part of the afternoon sleeping, but then as the sky began to darken, got up and made herself useful in the kitchen, finding boxes of pasta and canned tuna in the pantry, cheese and milk in a kind of cool store fronted with chicken wire. She’d managed to open the boxes and cook one-handed without having to call for assistance, though it had been more of a challenge than she expected and by the time she had finished she was quite exhausted. As she was doing her best to clean up, Leah had emerged once more, hands covered in paint, another layer of dark green and white flecks on her sweater and a streak of carmine through her long auburn hair.
“What flowers are they?” Rachel asked as Leah cleared the table of some of its detritus and placed a jug containing a few sprigs of a prickly yellow-flowered plant. Rachel knew a great deal about biology, but considerably less about botany, particularly European species.
“Gorse. Ulex europaeus. Supposed to represent the darker qualities one needs to survive the journey of life, to give you the energy you might need to make difficult decisions. In Scotland it’s associated with the Cailleach, the Divine Hag, or the spirit of winter.”
“Oh,” said Rachel. “Right. The spirit of winter.” She’d only asked its name.
“It’s also not bad in gin,” said Leah, with a