3
Oxford, England. 7.38am
Morgan sat in the window seat of her tiny Jericho house, muscles aching from the run. The alcove had been one of the reasons she had bought the two up, two down terraced house between Ruskin College and the imposing stonework of the Oxford University Press. It was a sun-trap for a tiny part of the day and in the long, drawn out English winters she needed that glimmer of hope. It was a long way from her Tel Aviv apartment with Elian where they had embraced the pulse of the city, spending balmy nights dancing after long days of work researching military psychology. After Elian’s death, she had sold the apartment and now had little desire to be in loud places but she still needed the sun.
This house was her retreat from the mad world of academic Oxford and she bar
