Lot Forty-Two

The auction was held in the ballroom of the Seaview itself, which Rosie thought was either very poetic or very cruel.

The chandeliers were still there, furred with dust. The sprung floor still gave a little underfoot, the way it had when she was sixteen and dancing badly in borrowed shoes. Someone had set out forty folding chairs in rows, and thirty-eight of them were empty.

The thirty-ninth held Rosie, her bidding paddle, and every penny of her savings.

The fortieth held Kit Trelawney.

She had known he would be there. She had told herself so on the train, and again on the walk up from the harbour, and again outside the revolving door, which still stuck halfway round. It had not helped. He was broader than she remembered, and his hair was shorter, and he was wearing a suit that looked as if it had been bought for a funeral and never recovered. But he still sat the way he used to, one ankle on his knee, as if any chair he sat in was a deckchair.

He looked up. He saw her. His face did nothing at all, which was worse than anything it could have done.

“Lot forty-two,” said the auctioneer, to the empty room. “The Seaview Hotel, Gullhaven. Sold as seen.”

Rosie raised her paddle. So did Kit. Neither of them looked away.