Page 153 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘I think so,’ he replied.

‘Good. I was pleased when that copy finally turned up.’

The pieces slipped into place. So that book on silver – Magnus’s present, that had been Nate.

‘I’d better go,’ she said.

‘Yeah.’

She moved towards the door, the bell above it giving a soft, dull ring as she opened it.

The storm had faded to a drizzle, but the damp from the pavement, soon soaked through her shoes.

She didn’t look back. There was nothing to go back to.

In the early morning light, the river ran peat dark and quick over its stoney bed. Sammy stayed on the bank, shivering, the ducklings crowding around her ankles. She pulled her jacket close.

Mist lifted off the water in thin strands, drifting low over the surface. The banks were soft underfoot, and springy in places, the grass cropped short by unseen grazing. Bracken lay flattened, still wet from the night. Somewhere upstream, beyond the bend towards the moor, a pheasant called – sharp, solitary – then nothing again but the steady movement of water over stone.

Nate stood in the shallows, water sucking at his boots, one hand dipped under, feeling for the pull of the current. ‘It’s strong,’ he said. ‘Stronger than it looks.’

The ducks shifted against her legs, softly chirping, a restless, insistent sound. Sammy knelt, her hands moving automatically, gathering them close. They settled against her. Warm. Trusting.

Nate stepped up on to the bank, water dripping from his boots. ‘They’ll manage,’ he said.

Sammy released her hands. The ducklings waddled down to the water’s edge, slid forward, feet skimming the surface before instinct kicked in and they began paddling in quick, uncertain bursts. The current caught them, pulling them out of her reach. They drifted together at first – a yellow cloud – before spreading out, their small bodies learning the shape of the current.

They moved further away, the bend taking them, the line of the bank narrowing until they slipped from view.

‘They won’t remember us,’ Nate said.

‘That doesn’t mean we didn’t care.’

The mist thinned as the sun lifted, the light catching the surface of the water, breaking it into small, shifting fragments. ‘I thought . . .’ She stopped, reset. ‘I thought this might be a chance for us to talk.’

‘We can talk.’

She wanted him to look at her, to give her a chance. ‘Do you think there’s a way back with Magnus?’

Nate didn’t reply. He moved up from the bank, boots flattening the grass behind him. ‘I think you can do the job,’ he said. ‘But it’s not my decision. The only person who decides is Magnus.’

‘I thought you might . . .’

‘Speak to him?’

‘Yes.’

Nate shook his head. ‘That wouldn’t help you.’

She nearly laughed at that. ‘It would help,’ she said. ‘He respects you, listens to you.’

‘That’s not the point.’

The wind lifted the bottom of her coat, the river’s damp smell rising with it. ‘Then what is?’

Nate’s expression became tighter, harder to read. ‘That’s how it starts,’ he said. ‘Letting someone else carry life for you.’

Sammy looked at the stubble along his jaw, the hair too long, one lock of it slipping over his eye. He was close enough for her to smooth it out of the way. She didn’t.