9
Seven in the morning was a time Martin Day rarely appreciated. Indeed, rarely saw. He staggered to the balcony in his dressing gown, where the morning shade made his skin prickle and he retreated indoors to put on some coffee. After a glass of water he felt better, and took his coffee back to the balcony. This time he was prepared for the cool air and revelled in it. He stared out. The valley was glistening in the low morning sunshine, the opposite hills no longer a bland foil for the nearer view but a complex art work of shades and textures. The threat of heat lay dormant within the silence. Day admired the colours, wondering what kind of pictures Artemis had painted and whether she had ever painted anything like this view.
He opened his mobile but there were no messages. It was time
