He reflected on the previous two letters. How could anyone have ever imagined, after reading Lillibridge’s romantic accounts of eighteenth-century surroundings, that it would all end so sadly for him? For him. For Matthew. The grief of preparing a hastily written farewell had felt like it was happening to him.
Harrow spoke, his voice rippling quietly through the ponderous calm. ‘I came here today to thank you.’
To thank him? To thank Matthew?
Solemnly, he added, ‘I’m indebted to your kindness.’
‘Kindness? You said you came here to apologise.’
The whirr of a lawn mower spiralled into existence.
Harrow didn’t answer immediately. At last he said, ‘That was my foot in the door.’
Transient glimpses of somewhere far away. The glint of a pale jewel encased in lunar-gilt, a woodcutter’s axe
