unwrapped, she sniffed it. Not a quick, cautious sniff like Zach would have given it, but a long, deep inhale. The sniff of a connoisseur, like an expert would sniff wine. Zach fidgeted a little, uneasy in his deception. Dimity poked the heart with her index finger and watched the flesh return slowly, refilling the dimple she’d made. Then she stuffed the paper bundle back into Zach’s hands with a shake of her head. No irritation, just something like disappointment. “No more than a day old,” she said, and shut the door.
Speechless, Zach knocked on the door again, but Dimity clearly had no intention of opening it. Cursing, he went to the window and put his face up to it with his hands on either side to block out the light. He was well aware that this was unlikely to aid his case.
“Miss Hatcher? Dimity? I brought the pins you asked for, and I can get you a . . . newer heart, on Tuesday the butcher said. I’ll bring it to you then, shall I? Would you like the pins now, though? Miss Hatcher?” He peered into the gloom within and was sure he saw movement. As a last-ditch attempt, he pulled a copy of Burlington Magazine— a glossy art-world periodical—out of his bag, opened it to a drawing of Dimity and Delphine together, and held it up to the glass. “I was going to ask you about this picture, Dimity. If you remembered when it was drawn, and what game you were playing? And what Aubrey’s daughter Delphine was like?” He thought of the drawing of Delphine, hanging in his gallery, and all the long hours he’d spent gazing at it. Again came that frisson, that sense of the unreal, that here was someone who had seen his idol made flesh. Had touched her skin, held her hand. But there was no sound from within, no further movement. Zach dropped his hands and stepped back from the window, defeated. In the glass he was a black reflection, an outline, and behind him the sea and the sky were shining.
He walked past the cottage and down to the cliff top, where he sat cross-legged and squinted out at the water. The breeze moving over the sea made the surface smooth and then puckered; alternately matte and then incandescent with light. There were great swells on it, seeming to rise up from beneath the surface; long trails, which might have been the ghostly wakes of boats that had moved out of sight or the telltale sign of a current pulling away from the land, all unseen. Imagining its strength, the inescapable pull of all that water, gave Zach a shiver. Faintly, just behind his eyes, came the urge to try to paint the dazzling scene in front of him, but then a flash of something pale and moving caught his eye. Hannah Brock had appeared on the beach below him. He couldn’t see how she’d got down there, since she certainly hadn’t come past The Watch and there didn’t seem to be any other way into the little cove below. But there she was, and as he watched, she stripped off her jeans and shirt and picked her way to the water’s edge in a faded red bikini. Her hair, free of the green scarf this time, flew about in the wind, and she was soon up to her ankles in the water. Zach saw her fingers extend, spread wide, and then clench into fists. It must be cold. He smiled slightly. Hannah propped her fists on her narrow hips and stared out to sea, just as he had done a moment before. Such a long, flat horizon always drew the eye; it was irresistible. Zach hunkered down as low as he could, and shuffled as far back from the edge as possible while still being able to see her. To be caught looking again would be the death of it, he warned himself seriously. No coming back from that. The thought caught him off guard—the death of what?
Eventually, Hannah turned to her right and moved along to the edge of the cove. Her skin was light brown, not the ghastly white Zach knew was hiding under his own clothes. Her spare frame looked pared down, with nothing superfluous. Flat breasts and thin arms, only a narrowing at the waist to stop
Speechless, Zach knocked on the door again, but Dimity clearly had no intention of opening it. Cursing, he went to the window and put his face up to it with his hands on either side to block out the light. He was well aware that this was unlikely to aid his case.
“Miss Hatcher? Dimity? I brought the pins you asked for, and I can get you a . . . newer heart, on Tuesday the butcher said. I’ll bring it to you then, shall I? Would you like the pins now, though? Miss Hatcher?” He peered into the gloom within and was sure he saw movement. As a last-ditch attempt, he pulled a copy of Burlington Magazine— a glossy art-world periodical—out of his bag, opened it to a drawing of Dimity and Delphine together, and held it up to the glass. “I was going to ask you about this picture, Dimity. If you remembered when it was drawn, and what game you were playing? And what Aubrey’s daughter Delphine was like?” He thought of the drawing of Delphine, hanging in his gallery, and all the long hours he’d spent gazing at it. Again came that frisson, that sense of the unreal, that here was someone who had seen his idol made flesh. Had touched her skin, held her hand. But there was no sound from within, no further movement. Zach dropped his hands and stepped back from the window, defeated. In the glass he was a black reflection, an outline, and behind him the sea and the sky were shining.
He walked past the cottage and down to the cliff top, where he sat cross-legged and squinted out at the water. The breeze moving over the sea made the surface smooth and then puckered; alternately matte and then incandescent with light. There were great swells on it, seeming to rise up from beneath the surface; long trails, which might have been the ghostly wakes of boats that had moved out of sight or the telltale sign of a current pulling away from the land, all unseen. Imagining its strength, the inescapable pull of all that water, gave Zach a shiver. Faintly, just behind his eyes, came the urge to try to paint the dazzling scene in front of him, but then a flash of something pale and moving caught his eye. Hannah Brock had appeared on the beach below him. He couldn’t see how she’d got down there, since she certainly hadn’t come past The Watch and there didn’t seem to be any other way into the little cove below. But there she was, and as he watched, she stripped off her jeans and shirt and picked her way to the water’s edge in a faded red bikini. Her hair, free of the green scarf this time, flew about in the wind, and she was soon up to her ankles in the water. Zach saw her fingers extend, spread wide, and then clench into fists. It must be cold. He smiled slightly. Hannah propped her fists on her narrow hips and stared out to sea, just as he had done a moment before. Such a long, flat horizon always drew the eye; it was irresistible. Zach hunkered down as low as he could, and shuffled as far back from the edge as possible while still being able to see her. To be caught looking again would be the death of it, he warned himself seriously. No coming back from that. The thought caught him off guard—the death of what?
Eventually, Hannah turned to her right and moved along to the edge of the cove. Her skin was light brown, not the ghastly white Zach knew was hiding under his own clothes. Her spare frame looked pared down, with nothing superfluous. Flat breasts and thin arms, only a narrowing at the waist to stop
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