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had prevented me floating away altogether, had tethered me to earth. What I would never have told them, though, was about the desire, the rightness of it all, the private, physical spaces that freed him to be so urgently, powerfully male, that allowed me to be so fully a woman…
    She took a sip of wine, went over to the window. The curtains were still open, their heavy drapes tied back with silken ropes, and she could see the line of sea against the sky.
    Yes, I said to them, I shall be a vicar’s wife.
    A vicar’s wife. A warm house, a cosy fire, a welcoming table, a smile for my husband in our noisy, family home, our children running to and fro…
    Not this. Not this echoing shell, these well-appointed rooms in which there is only silence and the tap of my footsteps on the polished floors.
    She found herself back in the kitchen again. She heard her husband’s key in the lock. She bent to the oven and retrieved the casserole for supper.

     
     
    Chapter Four
     
    At twelve noon , on the thirtieth of July 1922 , Amelia Voake paused , breathless and shy , at the door of her husband’s workshop .
    ‘ Gabriel ? ’
    She lifted her long skirts , muddy from the garden , took a step over the threshold . The laboratory , he called it .
    ‘ Gabriel ? ’ she called again , but there was no answer . Only the hum in the silence , in the heavy dark shadows of the panelled walls .
    On the oak bench sat the machine , giving off its sour green light . Rays , she thought , gazing at it , something to do with the aether , is that what it was , or was that something else ? Dangerous , anyway , he was always saying so , not to come too near , not to let their child anywhere near .
    She wondered where he was . The rain beat against the windows . She stared at the tangle of wires , the light beaming from the lens .
    She’d forgotten , now , what errand had brought her here , a question from Cook , wasn’t it , something about sharpening a knife for the pheasant …
    Above the hum , another sound . She jumped . The machine seemed the same , the flickering light unchanged .
    Again , the sound , like a cry . A human cry , a howl of pain . But where …
    There it was . Out of the corner of her eye , a movement , white in the green light .
    She felt faint , sick with dread . Not this , not this again . Last time , she thought , it was my own imaginings , it was I who’d brought it into being . Last time her husband was there , talking , explaining in his dry voice and dry words the working of the experiment , ‘ You see , Amelia , with this modification , the movement of the optical components interferes as little as possible with the actual beam … ’
    She’d feigned comprehension , as usual , but behind him , in the thin light , she’d seen a shape , a man’s face , translucent , the bench visible through the human form , the pale hair , the rough white linen of his shirt .
    ‘… and here you see the counter - rotating beams … ’
    ‘ Gabriel – ’ she’d interrupted him . ‘ Did you see ? ’
    ‘ What , my dear ? ’ His voice was tight with irritation .
    ‘ There – ’ She had turned back , pointing .
    ‘ Your nerves , Amelia . Playing tricks again . ’
    Pointing , staring into the shadows . Seeing nothing .
    And now – now , here alone in the laboratory , she’d seen it again . She turned , breathing , ready to face it , whatever it was . A young man , limping , she thought , even in that one glimpse , the military coat , the torn white shirt …
    She saw only the dark wood walls , the grey daylight beyond . No man . No coat , no shirt .
    The noise of the machine was louder , and the light seemed to pulse more fiercely , as if on the brink of change , throwing fractured colour across the bench , across the wiring and the sheaves of papers .
    Her husband’s writings . A series of numbers , Greek lettering , arithmetic . Phrases , ‘ decreased density , thermal expansion … ’
    “ What is there in places