Chapter 11: The Nursery Door

On Thursday morning I came out of the bedroom at six and found two movers carrying Rowan's desk down the hall.

He walked behind them in a T-shirt and socks, holding a lamp.

"You're up early," he said.

"What are you doing?"

"I need a smaller desk."

"For what?"

"Work."

He didn't meet my eyes.

He took the lamp into the study at the end of the hall, the room with the long east window.

By seven it was empty except for a ladder and a roll of drop cloth.

He had not said the word.

There was a paint sample taped to the window, a soft yellow, with its face turned to the glass.

I stood in the doorway and held my elbows.

I wanted to ask. I wanted him to say it first.

He came and stood beside me, and our shoulders almost touched.

"Do you like it?" he asked, looking at the back of the card.

"I can't see it. It's facing the window."

"Is it?"

"It's very well hidden," I said.

His mouth did something small and private, and he went to get his coffee.

Margaret came at ten and took me shopping.

She did not ask whether I wanted to go.

She said the car was downstairs.

She said there was a place on Armitage Avenue with a very good reputation and very bad lighting.

We walked into a very large shop full of small white furniture.

She went straight for the blankets and came back holding one the color of butter.

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