Read Chapter 24: THE MOVE

Julian moved into Bellwether’s flat in June.

The process revealed that he owned thirty-seven boxes of books and only two boxes of everything else.

“This is pathological,” Maeve said as movers carried another crate upstairs.

“You own a bookshop.”

“That is inventory. This is illness.”

Lucy’s room became yellow.

Not tasteful yellow. Sunflower yellow. The sort that made the hallway seem dim by comparison.

Sarah helped paint.

At one point Maeve stood on a ladder while Sarah held the tray and Julian assembled a wardrobe incorrectly in the next room.

“This is strange,” Maeve said.

Sarah looked up. “Which part?”

“You painting your ex-husband’s daughter’s room in his girlfriend’s flat.”

“Our daughter.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“And yes. A bit.” Sarah smiled. “But strange isn’t automatically bad.”

From the bedroom Julian swore.

Sarah called, “Read the instructions.”

“I am reading the instructions.”

“You’re holding them upside down.”

Maeve nearly fell off the ladder laughing.

The first month was not idyllic.

Julian left mugs beside the sink rather than in it. Maeve answered work emails in bed. Lucy woke at six-thirty on Saturdays and considered whispering an oppressive adult custom. Maeve discovered she disliked having her routines observed daily.

One Tuesday, she snapped at Julian for moving Nora’s green ledger from the counter.

“It was beside the cooker,” he said. “I moved it so it wouldn’t get stained.”

“It has a place.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You could ask.”

“You could tell me.”

Maeve went silent.

Julian recognised the silence now.

“No,” he said.

“What?”

“We’re not doing three days of frost over a ledger.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“That is literally the problem.”

She glared at him.

He glared back.

It was almost a relief.

Julian was not infinitely patient. He could be defensive, pedantic, stubborn. He hated being late and became unbearable when hungry. Living together stripped romance of its controlled lighting.

Maeve loved him more for becoming specific.

“The ledger belonged to Nora,” she said finally. “When you move her things without asking, some irrational part of me feels like she’s being erased.”

Julian’s anger softened.

“And I know that’s not what you’re doing.”

“Thank you.”

“But I need you to ask before moving the few things of hers I’ve kept in shared spaces.”

“All right.”

“And I will stop leaving work equipment on your desk.”

“Thank God.”

Maeve narrowed her eyes.

He smiled.

The argument lasted eleven minutes.

Maeve later recorded this achievement in the green ledger.

At the end of summer, Bellwether hired Aisling full-time three days a week and another weekend assistant. The shop was not making Maeve rich. It was paying its bills, paying her modestly, and growing.

She continued freelance event work selectively, travelling four or five times a year.

Every departure still carried a faint old echo.

Every return changed the sound.