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reassuring against her feet, and yet she still felt cold to her core, had the sense of being disconnected from her own body. In the hallway she paused at the threshold of Sam’s room, her hand resting lightly upon the doorknob. But still she could not open it. Ridiculous as it seemed, she placed her ear upon the door and listened. What was she trying to hear? she wondered. The sound of her son breathing? His voice calling out to her in the night? Or perhaps it was the absence of sound she needed to hear. For a moment she listened intently. All was quiet. The only noise was the faint sound of waves breaking on the shore. Freya’s hand fell back down to her side. Perhaps tomorrow, she thought. Perhaps by then she would be able to do it. To look at everything that was still there, that was exactly as he had left it.
    Turning away, she made her way down the hallway into the kitchen. Even in the dark, she could manoeuvre her way around it effortlessly – the long table against the north wall, the island in its centre, work surfaces along the eastern wall. She walked to the sink in front of the kitchen window, turned on the tap and stuck her head beneath it, greedily drinking the water down. She became conscious of the dull ache in her throat, as if all the breath had been squeezed out of it. But she blinked the thought away and continued to drink. It was always this way – after the dream. As Freya turned the tap off, the sound of running water was replaced instantly by silence. Outside, there was barely any cloud in the sky and moonlight shone down into the walled garden. It was unkempt, overrun, weeds strangling the pathway, the trees and bushes overgrown. But beyond it, she knew, beyond the whitewashed wall that ran around the lighthouse enclosure, was the sea. Freya opened the door.
    It was still, the wind that had picked up earlier had dropped, and it was surprisingly warm given the lack of cloud. Barefoot, she made her way across the garden and then followed the path. When she reached the gate, she unlocked it and tiptoed down the slope to the beach, over the grassy knolls and the shingle. The sea was calm, flat, and when she reached its edge she dipped her toe in. It was cold. She took a step forward until her feet were submerged and a shiver ran down her spine. It was the temperature of the water, she told herself, watching her skin shimmer and distort below the surface. She fought the urge to take another step and then another and raised her head.
    After a moment, a broad flash of light arced across her gaze, reaching – it seemed – almost to the horizon. Then there was only a dark ocean. Seven seconds later it came again. One, two, three, Freya counted in her head. It was magical, beautiful, this interchange of light and dark, making it possible for things to be saved from the clutches of the sea. After a time, Freya realised that she was looking for something to emerge. A boat, perhaps. She smiled and a tear slid silently down her cheek. Yes a boat, bearing her son and her husband back to her once more. She narrowed her eyes. Perhaps if she longed for it enough it might just be possible, if she simply wished for it enough. The lamp arced to the horizon, dissipated the darkness for three seconds, and then was gone.

7
    WHEN SHE RETURNED to the cottage, Freya poured herself a glass of wine and sat, drinking it, at the kitchen table. She was tired, her thoughts sluggish and dull, but she knew that she would be unable to sleep if she went back to bed. Her hands played with the pile of letters in front of her, the mail that had accumulated at the cottage in her absence and that she had stacked on the table to be dealt with when she was ready. She picked the letters up now, one by one, scanned them cursorily and then placed them slowly back down on the table. At the bottom of the pile was a thick brown envelope addressed to her. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands. It was heavy and on the