of cold early-morning mist in it; you could feel it in your throat, but also you could smell, feel, a warm day ahead, when the scent would rise off the heather, where your hands would trace the high, high tops of the wildflowers, intertwined everywhere with butterflies and bees.
Groggy still, as well as feeling the aftereffects of the gin—plus, the shock of the change between grimy Euston and here was like jet lag—she stared out the window, her chin on her hand. What a privilege it had been, in the end, she supposed, to get to come here. It was annoying in a way that the human resources people and the therapists and her friends had all been right. It had done her good. Okay, she didn’t get everything . . . but that had been a silly fantasy. It shouldn’t—it mustn’t—define her stay, define her, take away what she had gained from the amazing country.
She stepped out into the early pink morning, Kirrinfief still quiet, apart from old Mrs. Whirter trundling up with her cart to hit the newsagent first. She waved to Lissa and, completely ignoring the fact that the girl looked exhausted, was carrying an overnight bag, and obviously just wanted to go home, immediately jumped into the bunion conversation again.
Three months ago, Lissa would have given a half smile and hurried on. This morning, she put her bag down and let the whole story—involving evil daughters-in-law and, for some reason, an Irn-Bru margarita—unfold, before promising to squeeze in an extra appointment and pop in later once she’d gotten herself squared up. Mrs. Whirter smiled broadly and said that wouldn’t be necessary, a chat with Lissa was a tonic in itself, and wasn’t it a terrible shame she had to leave?
Fortunately her eyes weren’t quite good enough these days to see the rapid tears forming in Lissa’s.
THE ROAD TO the little cottage was wildly overgrown, the hedgerows riotous and crazy from the never-ending sun and rain, sun and rain. Lissa took in their morning scent as the sun began to slowly rise, lifting the mists off the loch. The birds sounded in the trees; barely a car passed to disturb them, or her thoughts, as she trundled her suitcase behind her.
The little house looked sweeter than ever to her as she stepped up to the doorway, put the big old key in the lock.
For the oddest moment as she turned it she wondered . . . No, of course not. She was being ridiculous. And the kitchen was just as she had left it—was it really only twenty-four hours ago? Yes. Twenty-four hours before, one cup and one plate all by themselves neatly on the drying rack. Nothing had moved; nobody had been there. It was just her, alone, again. Her phone pinged. She couldn’t help grabbing at it. Her mum.
She smiled. I’ll call you later, she texted, and made a promise to herself to do so and invite her mum up, invite Kim-Ange. Everyone should get a chance to enjoy the cottage before she had to leave.
Lissa left her bag as it stood, went to the sink, and threw that icy water on her face and drank a large glassful of it. Okay. She was straight back to work today; she was due at the surgery in half an hour. Time to wrap things up. She could send . . . well, a formal email to Cormac she supposed. Signing off on all the patients so ideally they could slip seamlessly back into their own lives, pretending nothing had happened, pretending she hadn’t changed . . . And one day, Scotland would be just a distant dream, a memory that she told her children in some faraway future, where she had a place of her own and a partner and a grown-up life. “Once upon a time,” she would say, “I visited a magical land . . .”
She stopped suddenly, her heart in her throat. She was standing in front of the large window at the back of the kitchen, and out in the garden, there was a dark shape.
She took in a deep breath, fighting her panic response. This was Scotland, for God’s sake, not central London. The biggest crime here was someone crashing into the bus shelter when they’d had a few.
She took another deep breath, then glanced around for something to use as a weapon. Perhaps someone had thought the house was empty or abandoned.
The dark shape was on the lawn, crouching. She