I was in my nightgown, lying awake, thoughts edging a small, seemingly insignificant place called Nettle, when I heard a knock on the door. Standing, taking three steps to the door, I undid the lock and turned the knob, expecting Isla. There in the darkness stood Hawkes. His cheeks were wind-red, eyes bright in the lamplight coming from the writing desk. He smelled of dusk and woodland and starlight. “Hawkes, have you been out walking?” I whispered. “I have,” he said, as if he were still out of breath. “I’ve just returned. Cake?” Then he lifted his right hand, which held a plate of fine bone
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