To stay loyal to the memory of her mother is to step into her own grave.
Oh, but some part of her wants to; she longs for it. It is the only thing left to her.
And she cannot do it.
If there is anything in this world I can give you, it is yours. I ask nothing of you.
Her mother would grieve to see her dead. Her real mother.
Not this creature.
This ghost is her own creation.
A twisted memory, guilt, anger, pain, all built up into theshape of a woman who would never wish this: who, for all the hurt shehadcaused, would never dothis.
Odette lets go of the broken frame, and she and Claudine fall to the floor.
Claudine clearly cannot believe what Odette has done, and she clutches at the makeshift weapon greedily, eyes darting.
But Odette only edges away, one hand raised in supplication, shuffling back over the boards, through Lydia’s scattered drawings, smudged charcoal sketches, rough studies for larger pieces.
Cecilia’s face looks up at her.
There, by her foot, a lost page from a sketchbook. Cecilia’s beautiful face.
Like the sun in winter. A desperate relief. A glimpse of hope.
Odette has been such a fool.
She has been caught up in a selfish madness, an obsession – but she did not need to look to her mother’s ghost for love.
Cecilia has been there all along.
Cecilia, who has always come towards her, when others have turned away. Cecilia, who has held faith in her to the end. The only one who dreamt of a real future for them. The only one who ever truly saw her.
Cecilia, who lies in hospital not so far away.
Oh, if there is any chance at all that Cecilia still lives, then she must go to her – should have gone to her above all.
Claudine doesn’t matter. George doesn’t matter. All of this is nothing but the past, the echoes of the dead and dying, pain from lives that are not hers, pain that is not her duty to tend to.
Cecilia is hers. Odette has made such a monstrous mess of it all, maybe there is no way through.
But she must find Cecilia.
She must tell her that she is sorry.
Odette stands.
Claudine is on her knees, braced, clutching the wooden club, but Odette holds up her hands.
‘You win.’ She looks around at the chaos, the destruction. ‘Have it all.’
‘No – no!’ her mother’s ghost hisses, scrabbling at her.
Without another word, Odette leaves.
10
