Page 66 of A Snowfall of Silver

I move through the final days of the tour like a sleepwalker, going through the motions. I sew buttons, fix hems, tidy up. I go to the pub and stand quietly at the bar while people chatter around me.

Viola is back at work the next day as though nothing has happened. A couple of people make some cutting comments about her diva-like behaviour, but she ignores them with her chin held high. It is her armour, I know now, this icy hauteur – it keeps them all at a distance while she focuses on what matters.

She and I do not allude to our conversation. It was a temporary truce, that spilling of our secrets, and now we are back to business as usual.

Only nothing is usual for me. My dream has died, and that is what it feels like: a death. I feel bereft. The thing that I have been chasing all my life, the thing I have always been the most certain about, has gone. And in its place, there is nothing – just emptiness, and a sense of failure that gnaws at me, eating me up inside.

I watch the play being performed three more times. There is a line which Dan delivers that always gets a big laugh.

He says, “Lady Bracknell, I hate to seem inquisitive, but would you kindly inform me who I am?”

And every time Dan says the line, I think, That’s what I want. I want someone to tell me who I am. I have to pretend to laugh to hide the tears that sting in my eyes.

I feel as though the rug has been swept from under my feet. And where the rug had been is nothing but a gaping hole that I am falling into deeper and deeper. I am Alice in Wonderland all over again, only this time the dream feels like a nightmare.

Kit tries to talk to me, more than once.

“Are you all right, Freya?” he asks outright on one occasion. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” I say, in a tone that is bright and brittle as the ice in the streets.

“Well, I’m here,” he says. “If you want to talk. If there’s anything…” He trails off. “I’m here.” The words are like a promise.

I can tell he is hurt and confused that I have withdrawn from him, though – to be fair – I have withdrawn from everyone. But he is here. He keeps his word. In the evenings he sits beside me in the crowd, not talking, simply being there, occasionally putting food in front of me, or a glass in my hand. I don’t even thank him. I say nothing.

And then, just like that, after six busy, beautiful, heartbreaking weeks, it is all over.

When Nora drops me off at Lou’s house, we say goodbye, her wool coat pressing against my cheek as she gathers me in for a hug.

“Here,” she says, handing me a parcel wrapped in brown paper. “This is for you.”

“Thank you,” I say. “For everything.”

Nora hugs me again, until I gently pull away. I notice her eyes are suspiciously shiny.

Then I let myself in with the key Lou gave me and I go up to my little yellow bedroom and sleep for eighteen hours.

When I wake, Lou is sitting on the end of the bed.

“Hello, stranger,” she says.

I fling myself into her arms and cry like I am a small child and she is my wise, capable big sister. Which, I suppose, is completely accurate.

“I take it something has happened,” Lou says, when my tears have reduced themselves to very undignified snuffling sounds.

“My dream is dead!” I intone, flinging myself back against my pillows.

“Oh dear,” says Lou mildly. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that. Why don’t you wash your face and get dressed and come downstairs?” Lou’s unruffled demeanour reminds me for a second of Midge, and I feel a wave of homesickness that threatens to crush me. “There’s tea and toast and jam tarts, and I’ve found that dreams have a way of reviving on a full stomach.”

“If only it were that simple,” I sniff, disconsolate. “Jam tarts, did you say?”

Lou nods.

“Did you make them?” I ask suspiciously.

“Robert did.”

“Maybe I’ll come down, then.”