MasukThree years to the day after a registry office in Gibraltar, Furina Vauclair woke up at Ashcombe to the sound of her daughter trying to eat a rose.It was a Tuesday in August. The windows were open onto the garden. The sun was already warm on the old stone sill, and somewhere below, among the beds that Annabel had planted and Mrs Hollis had kept and Furina, with a great deal of advice from a dead woman's diaries, had slowly learned to look after, there came a thoughtful munching noise, then a pause, then a small, outraged wail."She's found the thorns," said Rafe, into his pillow, without opening his eyes."She's your daughter.""She's your daughter. I've never eaten a rose in my life.""You've never been fourteen months old."He considered this. "Fair," he said, and got up to go and rescue her.Furina lay in the warm bed and listened to him go down the stairs, and across the hall, and out into the garden, and then to his voice, low and patient, explaining in two languages why roses w
Antoine had been planning the wedding since October, whether they liked it or not, and it showed.He'd booked the caterers before Rafe had bought a ring. He'd chosen the flowers before Furina had said yes. He had argued with Bastien for a fortnight about the wine, with Marguerite for a month about the cake, and with the mayor of Saint-Martial about the parking, and he had won every single argument, because he was Antoine Vauclair and it was his château and his son was getting married, properly this time, in his first wife's rose garden, in July."You're already married," Fionn had pointed out, on the phone from Bray, in June."In Gibraltar," Antoine had said, with a world of contempt in the word. "In a registry office. With a contract. That is not a wedding. That is a transaction with confetti."Fionn had considered this."Fair enough," he'd said. "I'll bring my good suit."The morning of the wedding was gold and blue and already warm by eight.Furina dressed in the room at the top of
The twenty-first of June was the longest day of the year, and in Paris nobody went to bed.It was the Fête de la Musique. There was music on every corner: a brass band outside a boulangerie, an accordion on the Pont des Arts, a string quartet in a courtyard in the Marais, and, outside a church in Saint-Germain, a teenage death-metal band whose drummer appeared to be about eleven. The whole city smelled of warm stone and frying onions and summer."Every year," said Rafe, as they walked along the river in the long gold evening. "Every year on this night they play. And every year I sat at the bar of the Marivaux and listened to it through the window."Furina stopped walking."The twenty-first of June," she said slowly. "That's—""Five years tonight," said Rafe. "Yes."She looked at him for a long moment in the golden light, with a death-metal band thrashing away somewhere behind them and the river sliding by below."You are," she said, "the most sentimental man I have ever met.""Don't t
In the middle of May, Tiffany asked Furina to come home with her for Sunday lunch, in the voice of a woman asking someone to hold her hand at the dentist.The Summers family house was in Gloucestershire: honey-coloured stone, too many chimneys, and a drive long enough to change your mind on twice. Tiffany changed hers three times. Furina knew because she said so, out loud, at each bend."We can still turn round," she said at the last one."We're not turning round.""I could fake a migraine. Joan says they're very effective.""Tiff."Tiffany parked. She sat for a moment with both hands on the wheel. Then she took a breath, got out, and walked up the front steps of the house she'd been avoiding for two years with her chin in the air, like a woman walking into a courtroom.Her mother opened the door herself.Mrs Summers was small and elegant, with Tiffany's exact jawline and a gaze that took in everything at once. It took in Tiffany's dress now. Furina watched it happen: the eyes droppin
The application form asked for her full name, and Furina sat looking at the empty box for a long time.She'd been a great many names in the past year. Mrs Vauclair, in every newspaper in Britain. The contract bride. The vase woman, to four hundred thousand strangers on the internet and one small girl in Desmond's flat. Hero wife. Darling.She picked up the pen and wrote: Furina Dunne.The firm was called Hartley Marsh. It occupied four floors of a narrow grey building near Moorgate and did nothing but forensic accounting: fraud, embezzlement, money that had been to Jersey and back in a false moustache. It was offering two places on its trainee programme, with sponsorship to finish the chartered accountancy qualification Furina had abandoned two years ago in a hospital corridor at Whipps Cross."I could make a phone call," said Rafe, reading over her shoulder."If you make a phone call," said Furina, without looking up, "I'll divorce you.""That seems disproportionate.""Two years and
The trustees' decision arrived on the third of April, in a stiff cream envelope delivered by hand to the house in Primrose Hill.Everybody was there. Nobody had planned it; it had just happened, the way things did now. Priya had come round at ten "to wait with them", carrying a bottle of gin "for afterwards, whichever way it goes". Edward Lark had come with her because Priya had told him to. Antoine had come down in his dressing gown, Joan had made enough tea for a regiment, and by eleven Tiffany, Lizzy, Harrod and Tommaso had all turned up "just passing", which was a lie, since none of them lived within three miles of Primrose Hill. Mick was in the garden, guarding the rose. Callum was in the hall. Mercer was on speakerphone from Kentish Town, pretending to be busy.When the bell rang, nobody moved.Then Rafe went and answered it.He came back into the kitchen holding the envelope. He looked at it. Then he held it out to Furina."You open it," he said."Why me?""You're the one who s
The evening had ended with Celeste’s biting remarks and Antoine’s surprising encouragement, leaving Furina and Diluc to navigate the complexities of their newly declared relationship. The drive away from the mansion was filled with a heavy silence, each lost in their thoughts as the London cityscape
Furina leaned against the wall of the dimly lit tube station, trying to steady her nerves. The metallic hum of the arriving train grew louder, mingling with the rhythmic thrum of her anxious heartbeat. She glanced at her phone again, noting the text message from Diluc Ragnvindr Neuvillette: “Meet me
Furina didn’t even have a chance to take a breather when he got into the car, seated next to her, and slammed the door shut. She heard him speak to the driver in French and the car began to move out of the lobby. “Wait. Wait. Wait. Where are we going?” Her initial plan was simply hide from plain si
Four years later, The second Furina Dunne opened the front door, she knew something was not right. Her heart told her so before her eyes could see the proof wide open. The whole place was ransacked. Everything was thrown onto the wooden floor. Burglary? No. There was no way it was done by a burgla







