The dour day became darker yet, the deeper she pressed into the trees. The fallen leaves of Doverley’s great ashes and oaks formed a cushion beneath her feet; their branches, a dripping lattice canopy. Firs vied for space, spindly peaks poking upwards, reaching for the sky. She inhaled their pure scent and found herself once again catapulted back in time, picturing herself in a faded pinafore: sprinting, laughing; chest bursting in delight.The image came to her so vividly, it seemedthat if she could only turn quickly enough, she might catch her child’s shadow, flitting across the earthen floor: these woods of Doverley a Neverland of sorts, holding a version of herself that would never grow up.
The hawk had fallen silent. The woody silence surrounding her was fractured only by the rustling branches, her crunching footsteps, and the sound of her breaths, quickened by the cold. She moved hurriedly, impatient, now that she could feel herself so close, to get there.
As, quite abruptly, she did, breaking through a thicket of branches to find herself in the cottage’s clearing.
She stalled, heart hammering, reabsorbing its crooked, overgrown form: there, exactly as it had always been, all wild, and broken, and beautiful.
Has it been magicked here for us?Robbie had asked, the first time they’d come.
It’s definitely been magicked, Iris had replied.
‘Definitely,’ she breathed again, now, making her way to the cottage’s weeded front path.
There, she crouched, pushing ivy back from the gate’s swollen, splintered post, and smiled, running her thumb over the engraved names that she and Robbie had left, one long-ago summer.
Letting the ivy drop, she stood, carried on up to the front door, which the wind and time had blown ajar. She pushed it wide, her hands shaking in anticipation, sudden nerves, over what, she gave herself no pause to consider, because she was slipping into the hallway, which smelt just as it always had – of damp plaster, and old smoke – and looked exactly as she’d always recalled, too, with its low ceiling, and peeling walls. But it wasn’t its perfect sameness that stilled her feet. Because the small, dilapidated space she’d entered held so much more than memories, and she wasn’t nervous any more.
She wasn’t alone.
A man in air force blues stood facing her, filling the archway that led to the kitchen.
He was taller than he’d lived in her mind.
Older.
His eyes, that even in childhood had seemed to have seen so much, were weighted with a gravity that spoke of him having borne witness to much, much more.
But they were as blue as she’d always known them.
Every bit as warm.
And when he smiled – as he did: slowly, disbelievingly,happily– they sparked, which absolutely, unequivocally, made her heart sing.
Slowly, he shook his head, and took a step towards her.
She remained rooted to the spot.
It was every one of her dreams, all over again.
He opened his mouth to speak, and she knew already the words that were coming.
She didn’t say that, though.
She still wanted to hear him say them.
So, she remained silent, waiting.
His smile grew, like he knew she was doing that.
She felt her own cheeks move in response.
Then, in a voice that was lower than she recalled, huskier, he let go those words she’d been waiting for.
‘Hello, Clarence,’ he said.
Chapter Seven
Claudia
