Ophelia was beginning to have serious doubts about Andrew's ability to operate a bicycle.

She glanced behind her at where the man in question was huffing and puffing, cycling his long legs like a hamster in a wheel. His blond hair was scattered by the sea freeze, sticking up in odd clumps. She bit back a smile.

"I thought you were meant to be athletic."

"I am athletic!"

"Maybe you should stick to your tricycle," Ophelia suggested mildly. "That extra wheel clearly went a long way."

Andrew muttered something distinctly uncomplimentary.

Ophelia turned back around again. Carne Beach unfurled before her, a splash of white sand sheltered by a grassy cliff. Other than a couple walking a dog, the beach was deserted. She breathed in a lungful of salty air.

"Hang on," she called. "Let's stop for a bit."

"Oh, thank god," Andrew muttered.

They parked their bikes at the edge of the sand. Ophelia raced down to the water, whooping as she kicked off her shoes. Andrew stared at her.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Going in the water."

"In November?"

She shrugged. "No time like the present." She waded into the water, hissing out a breath as the freezing water hit her ankles. "Gosh, that's cold."

Andrew gave her an "I-told-you-so" look. Ophelia pointedly ignored it.

She splashed around a little, reveling in the endless water. They had a lake in Toronto, of course, but it was nothing compared to this; there was something special about the sea. It made her feel as if she was a child again, when everything was bigger than her. Even a table leg had been mysterious, and worth discovering.

Ophelia splashed back to the shore, pulling on her shoes.

Andrew had plopped down on the beach, his long legs sprawled in front of him. His eyes were fixed on the water as she approached.

"Father and I used to come here," he said. "When I was little."

Ophelia paused. "You did?"

"Yes."

She took a seat beside him, her mouth suddenly dry. Whatever she had been expecting him to say, it certainly wasn't that.

"He's sick, isn't he?"

Andrew nodded. "Cancer. Lungs, to be specific."

"I'm sorry."

Andrew shrugged. A muscle was working in his jaw, and his shoulders were stiff. Before Ophelia was fully aware of what she was doing, she took his hand, lacing their fingers together.

Andrew tensed, but didn't pull away.

She nibbled her lip. "Is that why you want to marry her?"

"Eleanora?"

"No. Penny, your cook."

Andrew's lips twitched. "Don't be stupid," he said. "I fancy our driver Linda much more." His smile faded as he looked down at their interlocked hands. "You know, Father once told me that Eleanora would make a good life partner. He said she was the type of girl that always knew just what to say, and exactly when to say it."

Ophelia swallowed. Her stomach suddenly felt tight, as if someone had reached into her gut and wrung it out like a washcloth.

"Sounds like your mind is made up."

"It is."

"Do you love her?"

She knew that she was pushing some invisible boundary between them, but she couldn't help it; she suddenly had to know. Andrew rubbed at his chin.

"I don't know," he said finally. "Some days I think I do. Other days, I'm not even sure that I believe love exists." He shot her a wry look. "No offense."

She bumped his shoulder. "You're such a cynic."

"I'm just practical."

They sat in silence for a moment, staring out at the waves. Andrew was drawing little circles on the back of her hand with his thumb, and she shivered. He seemed unaware of it, though. It was almost automatic.

Andrew sighed. "I wish I could bring my father down here. But between his wheelchair, and the sand..." He shook his head. "He hates it when I carry him, too. He's just so damn proud; it drives me mad."

Ophelia squeezed his hand. "I can see why he loves it here; it's so peaceful."

"Well," Andrew said, "it's certainly quiet." He cleared his throat. "I live; I die; the sea comes over me; it's the blue that lasts."

"Plath?" Ophelia guessed.

Andrew shook his head. "Virginia Woolf."

She raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you quote things?"

"Well, I don't make a big show of it," Andrew said wryly. "But I'm not completely illiterate, you know; despite what my mother says, I do know my way around Isak Dinesen. Or the occasional Thackeray novel."

She was still staring as Andrew dropped her hand, climbing to his feet. Sand clung to the back of his trousers, and he patted them down briskly. His cheeks were tinged red with the salty breeze.

"Come on," he said. "We should get back. Mum's expecting us for dinner, and she's made it clear that she'll serve peas if we're late."

Ophelia was never eating again.

Ever.

She sagged in an armchair by the fire, her stomach pleasantly full. Dinner had once again been a multi-course affair; Jane had served up cedar plank salmon with a lemon dill sauce, alongside roasted beets, whipped goat cheese, and a bruschetta made with fresh basil from the garden.

Ophelia was strongly considering never leaving.

Next to her, Andrew groaned, patting his stomach. "I'm stuffed."

"Likewise," Frank said.

Jane kissed his cheek. "Do you want any cake, darling?" 

"I couldn't possibly."

"It's rhubarb."

Frank perked up. "Oh, go on, then; I can find the space."

Ophelia smiled to herself, surveying the room. Everything in the parlor was circular: the mirror, the thick shag carpet, a chestnut coffee table filled with the remnants of their card game... Even the painting above the fireplace was round.

She squinted at it.

Hang on. That was quite good, actually.

She drifted closer, inspecting it. The artist had swirled together burnt orange and black paint, making it look as if four horses were emerging from flames. Their hooves were raised towards the viewer, and there was a flatness in their eyes that made her shiver.

"Andrew did that," Jane told her. "Three years ago."

She stared at him. "You did?"

"Oh, god," Andrew groaned. "Mum. Stop."

"What?" Jane asked innocently. "You were quite good, darling." She passed Frank a slice of rhubarb cake, squeezing his shoulder. "He was even offered a scholarship to the Royal College of Art, if you can believe it."

Andrew sighed. "Well, I don't paint anymore."

"Why not?" Ophelia asked.

"I can't." Andrew shrugged. "Not for years. Not since..." He glanced at Frank, and there was an awkward pause. He crossed his left ankle over his knee. "Anyways, I took up riding instead. Much bigger hit with the ladies."

Jane frowned. "Oh, Andrew."

"What?"

"Well, I—"

"Do you know," Frank cut in, "I'm actually feeling rather tired." He rubbed at his eyes, his expression weary. The untouched rhubarb cake rested in his lap. "If you all don't mind, I think I'll turn in for the night."

Immediately, Jane and Andrew were both on their feet.

"Do you want a blanket?"

"Or water?"

"I can get your pain medication, darling; it's in the—"

"Enough." Frank raised a hand. "I'm alright." He gave Ophelia a weak smile. "You see what I must suffer through, my dear?"

He shook his head, wheeling himself out of the parlor. Jane hovered for a moment, his rhubarb cake still in her hands. Then she sighed.

"I'm going to check on him."

"Do you need help?" Andrew rubbed his face. "If he wants a bath—"

"I can manage," Jane told him firmly. "I always have." To Ophelia's surprise, she swooped down, kissing her on the cheek. "It was lovely to meet you, dear; be sure to visit anytime you find yourself in Cornwall, alright?"

"Thanks for having me."

"Don't be silly," Jane said. "It was our pleasure."

She watched, her heart in her throat, as Jane trudged through the doorway. There was grey at the roots of her hair, Ophelia realized. She hadn't noticed that before.

Andrew sank into a chair. "She'll be up all night with him."

"They love each other a lot, don't they?"

"Yes," Andrew sighed, pouring himself a glass of whisky. "That's exactly the problem." He lifted the bottle. "Do you want some?"

She shook her head. "What do you mean?"

"About the whisky?"

"No," she said. "The love part."

"Oh, that," Andrew said dismissively. "Love makes you vulnerable, doesn't it? To love someone completely — wholly — is to carve out your heart and place it on a chopping block. Then you hand someone else a knife." He swirled the whisky. "I would never be so stupid."

Ophelia pursed her lips. "You're wrong."

"Which part?"

"Love doesn't make you weaker," she told him. "It makes you stronger."

She knew this for a fact; Ophelia had read the letters that her grandmother sent to her husband while he was overseas in France during World War II. She had written about the yellow daffodils flowering under the porch, and the colour of the sky in June. Quotes from the books she was reading. Funny anecdotes from the market.

Ophelia once asked her grandmother whether she thought the letters had helped him get through the war.

"Ophelia, darling," she said. "War reveals who we are, but it is love that reminds us who we can become; it is more essential than breathing."

Ophelia had never forgotten that. Not once.

Now, Andrew took a sip of whisky. "I suppose that I get scared sometimes."

"Of loving?"

"No," he said softly. "Of loving too much."

She caught her breath. The firelight reflected odd shadows on Andrew's face, hollowing out his cheekbones and temples. He swirled the caramel-coloured whisky. He looked strange to her tonight, she realized. There was a fragility to him that she hadn't seen before; an almost aching vulnerability.

"Right." Andrew cleared his throat, breaking the spell. "To bed, I think; we have an early start in the morning." He climbed to his feet. "How's nine o'clock for you?"

Ophelia awoke early.

She wrapped a grey shawl around her shoulders, tiptoeing downstairs. Wisteria Hill was holding its breath; only the grandfather clock occasionally hiccuped, breaking the silence. Ophelia pushed open the back door, padding into the gardens.

Jasmine and freesia assaulted her senses. She could hear birds chirping as she settled on a stone bench, watching as the sun blinked its lazy eyes. The sky was a melting pot of salmon pink and buttercup yellow.

"You're up early."

Ophelia jumped. "You scared me!"

"Sorry." Andrew took the seat beside her. "You make it so easy."

He gave her a lopsided smile. He was still dressed in striped pajama bottoms, although he had thrown a grey jumper on. She stared out at the flowering hedges, a riot of sapphire, emerald green and amethyst.

"You should give your gardener a raise."

"Alas, I think Mum only accepts payment in the form of handbags."

"Jane did this?" Ophelia spun to face him. "All of it?"

"Most of it," Andrew corrected her. "But she makes a point of supervising the planting each spring." He stood, examining a wilting winter rose. "Or at least, she did. This year is different, of course."

Ophelia swallowed. "With your father, you mean."

"Yes."

She rose to her feet, moving to stand behind him. She could hear Andrew's breath catch as she leaned past him, turning over a rose to examine it; the petals were drying inward at the edges, turning earwax yellow.

"I've always loved flowers, you know," she murmured. "I used to think they were fallen stars."

Andrew went still. "Ophelia..."

He half-turned, sending a jolt of electricity through her. She hadn't realized how close they were standing. Not until now, when she could feel his heart racing. Or maybe it was her own; it was difficult to say.

"Yes?"

He cleared his throat. "I—"

A phone rang.

Andrew swore colorfully, frantically searching his pockets. He took a step back as he picked up the phone, and Ophelia felt an odd sense of loss. She hugged the shawl close to her body, watching as he paced the garden path.

They had only been at Wisteria Hill for less than two days, but something had changed between them. Something inexplicable.

Ophelia nibbled her lip. Did she feel sorry for Andrew? Because of his father?

No.

That wasn't quite it.

She was still puzzling over it as Andrew hung up the phone, stalking back towards her. He was frowning slightly.

"What?" Ophelia asked. "What is it?"

Oh, god. She hoped it wasn't his father. But Jane would have come out and told them herself, wouldn't she?

"That was Digby," he said.

"Digby?"

"You know." Andrew gave her a wry smile. "The man you're in love with?"

Ophelia scowled. "I'm not in love with him."

"Details, details." Andrew waved her off. "Anyways, he's invited me up to his estate in Scotland next weekend for a shoot. And Eleanora, of course."

"Oh." Ophelia paused. "That's... nice."

She didn't feel like it was nice, though. Her stomach was doing that odd washcloth thing again, and she suddenly felt like running Eleanora over with a fast-moving bicycle. She frowned. What the hell was going on with her today?

"Right," Andrew said. "But that's not all." He took a breath. "You see, Digby asked me to invite someone else."

"Oh? Who?"

"Well," he said. "You."

A/N: Oooh cue the drama!

In all seriousness, these next few chapters in Scotland were some of my favourite to write, and I can't wait for you to read them. I just love trapping all the characters in an isolated house, cranking the drama up to 100, and watching everything blow up.

What did everyone think of Andrew's terrible bicycle riding? And revelations on love? As always, I can't wait to hear your thoughts!

Affectionately,

J.K.