He squints at the shadowed wall of the farmhouse. Nothing moves. ‘Iain?’ he calls softly. He suddenly feels ridiculous, sitting there on his horse in the middle of the road at twilight, talking to what is probably an old, upturned cart, or a restless farm cat. ‘I just want you to know I still think of you,’ Harry says, his voice cracking. ‘Every goddamn day.’
