The House at the End of Hope Street - By Menna van Praag Page 0,81

speak with such passion before. She remembers the very first lecture, on Gladstone and the Great Gordon Debacle, as she watched the words flow forth:

When Gladstone abandoned General Gordon at Khartoum, allowing him and his remaining troops to be massacred by the invading Mahdi army, the public, goaded by a saber-toothed press, turned against him. And the Grand Old Man became the murderer of Gordon. Because he couldn’t play the political game as well as Disraeli . . .

Dr. Skinner’s words had poured forth in dozens of different hues: puce for passion, violet for joy, bright green for truth, scarlet for dedication, deep purple for wisdom, orange for insight, bright yellow for inspiration. Alba had never before seen so many brilliant colors all at once. And by the time her teacher fell silent, she was in love.

At least, she’d thought so then. She understands now it was just infatuation, addiction, obsession. She was as obsessed with Dr. Skinner as Dr. Skinner was obsessed with becoming an acclaimed academic, even if it took cheating, lying and ruining other people’s careers to get there. But the pain of all that is dull and muted now, almost entirely eclipsed by thoughts of her father and by her preoccupation with Carmen’s song, the current version of which is definitely lacking something.

—

“Have you ever . . . ?”

“What?” Stella asks, though she knows what’s coming.

“Well . . . what I mean is,” Alba says, fumbling for the right words and not quite sure why the subject embarrasses her so much. “That is, I wonder what . . .”

“Yes?” Stella asks, knowing Alba needs to be able to say the words herself, to talk about it, if she ever stands a chance of actually experiencing it.

“Love,” Alba says. “Tell me about being in love.”

At last. Stella smiles. “Of all the musicians, Ellis was the one I loved the most. We read together. I’ve never done that with anyone, not before or since. I like to be alone for certain things . . .”

“Yes.” Alba nods, shocked at the thought of sharing something so intimate as reading. She isn’t sure what scares her more: the possibility of reading with someone else, or sex.

“Oh, but it was wonderful.” Stella laughs. “We’d lie on the sofa together, or in bed, and share a book. We would take it in turns to read aloud. Sometimes we’d both silently read at once. But I was always so much faster than him, and I’d get impatient to turn the page, so that was rare. Ellis had a beautiful voice . . . I could have shut my eyes and listened to him forever. I’m not sure which was better, soaking in his words or his sweat.” She giggles again, and it ripples along the kitchen walls as Dora, Vita and a few hundred other women echo her. Alba blushes.

“I can still hear his voice,” she says, smiling. “It rather makes me feel all—”

“What happened to him?” Alba interrupts to avoid hearing a potentially embarrassing revelation.

For the first time Stella’s eyes fog over and she puts her chin into her palms. “Pills.”

Alba doesn’t have the right words so she says nothing. They sit in silence.

“Do you want to know what love feels like?” Stella looks up, her eyes shining again, though whether with tears or excitement Alba can’t quite tell.

Slowly, Alba nods.

“Well,” Stella says, “if you’re sure you’re ready, then I can show you.”

“You can?”

Stella nods. “There are certain abilities the dead have. Give me your hand.”

Alba reaches out. Holding her own hand a few inches above Alba’s, Stella looks at her more deeply than she ever has before. Her gaze is two parts joy, one part hope, one part compassion, with a sprinkling of pure adoration. At first Alba feels nothing, then a sensation tingles her skin. A deep, sudden rush of warmth seeps into her, into every inch and every cell. It’s the softest, strongest, most wondrous thing she’s ever felt—as though every single cell in her body is bursting with light, being born again. And she feels her heart as intimately as if she were holding it in her hands.

—

There is one thing Zoë has done in her life of which she is truly ashamed. But she’s been excessively punished for it, and that’s served to ameliorate her guilt a little. Nearly three years ago she found a story of Alba’s slipped between the pages of a very tattered copy of Rebecca. For seven days Zoë kept it in her