The morning light in the Hampstead study was different from the light in the bookstore. It was softer, filtered through the leaves of the oak tree that had grown tall outside the window over the last decade. It cast dappled shadows on the desk, moving slowly as the sun climbed. I sat in the leather chair, the one Marcus had bought for my fiftieth birthday, and looked at the stack of papers in front of me. They were not manuscripts. They were legal documents. Retirement papers. Foundation board resignations. Trust fund restructuring.
Marcus stood by the window. He was wearing his reading glasses, the silver frames catching the light. He was looking at the garden. The stone wall was visible through the glass, gray and solid against the green grass. He had been standing there for ten minutes
