The Resistance

door to their house were opaque; it wasn’t until she’d opened it that she realised who it was. Her first reaction was to go white.
    ‘Peter . . . is he OK? Is something wrong?’
    Richard Pincent smiled benevolently. ‘Peter is very well, Anna. Peter is extremely well, in fact. It was you I wanted to see. I wonder if I might come in?’
    He stepped across the threshold before Anna could decide whether or not to welcome him in, had given her his coat before she’d had time to offer to take it. A minute later, he was in the sitting room, sitting on their sofa; Anna hurriedly swept her Declaration off it, placed it face down on the floor.
    ‘Would you . . . would you like some tea?’ she asked. She had met Richard Pincent only once, the day her parents had died; he had come to take Peter away. To her eternal gratitude, Peter had chosen to stay with her, but Richard Pincent’s face had for ever been etched into her memory, a figure to be feared.
    ‘No, nothing, thank you. So this is your house?’
    Anna nodded and sat down on the chair to the left of the sofa; she could think of no appropriate answer to such a question, was terrified that if she even opened her mouth she would say the wrong thing.
    Richard Pincent smiled again. ‘You know, Peter’s turning out to be quite the scientist.’
    Anna nodded apprehensively. He wasn’t really here to talk about Peter, she was sure of it.
    ‘Yes, he’s a very intelligent young man,’ Richard Pincent continued silkily. ‘You must be very proud of him.’
    Anna nodded again. Her feelings for Peter went beyond pride; they were of love in its purest sense, but not a love that could be described with terms like pride, respect, even adoration. Peter was part of her. Peter was the reason she breathed, the reason she got up each morning, the reason this strange, harsh world filled her with hope more often than complete and utter despair. At least, he had been.
    ‘I’m very proud,’ she said quietly.
    Richard Pincent stood up, his expression sad and thoughtful. ‘He really cares about you, Anna. He’s told me, you know. I gather you had quite a time of it in Grange Hall.’
    Anna watched silently, as he turned to look at a painting on the wall, a painting of sunflowers that Peter had picked up in a market for her, a painting that reminded her of her parents’ house – sunny and warm and light.
    ‘And I wondered,’ Richard continued, ‘just how much you care about him.’
    ‘How . . . how much I care about him?’ Anna’s voice caught slightly, with indignation, with outrage. How dare he ask her how much she cared for Peter? How dare he?
    ‘Love, you see Anna, is a difficult thing. It means putting another person first. So often people talk of love, but what they mean is need and longing; they want to own the other person, subjugate them to their will. Real love, well, it means sacrifice. It means thinking of the other person’s needs before your own. Sometimes I wonder if real love still exists, but then I look at Peter, I hear him talk about you, and it chastens me. He does love you, Anna. Very deeply.’
    ‘He does?’ Anna knew that he did, but to hear the words still reassured her, even to hear them from Richard Pincent.
    ‘Of course he does. So much, in fact, that he’s sacrificing himself for you. His life. His ambition.’
    Anna’s eyes widened. ‘His life?’
    Richard Pincent sat down again, this time at the other end of the sofa, closer to Anna. ‘Peter has realised some things about himself, Anna, about the world. He’s got so much to give, you see, so much to contribute. And Opting Out . . . it would constrict him, it would decimate his chances to do anything worthwhile. Your parents, Anna, had a huge influence over my grandson. I’m eternally grateful to them for keeping him safe for me, and to you for being there for him. But I’m sure that you are grateful to him for helping you. I’m sure you can see that people change, people move on, that sometimes the loving thing to do is to set someone free, not to impose your own views on them, to restrict their choices.’
    ‘I’d never restrict Peter,’ Anna said, her voice hoarse and dry, uncertain. However much she hated Richard Pincent, he was right. Peter had trusted her, and she’d let him down. He’d saved her, and now she wasn’t there for him. ‘But I can’t Opt Out. I can’t.’
    Richard Pincent nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’m sure you believe that, Anna. I’m sure you