CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
It was still light when Freya left for Catherine’s house. The sun shone salmon pink above the tree line. She moved quickly through the twilight towards the cottage, her boots against the snow the only sound down the street. This time no curtains twitched. The houses stared back at her, somehow older, less cared-for. She wasn’t sure that she preferred the stillness.
Relief filled her at the sight of the cottage. She hurried the rest of the way down the street and up the pathway. Catherine would know what to say. They would open a bottle and collapse in her sofas and talk and laugh as they had done for nearly forty years. She could almost smell the robust wine, oaky and delicious in her mouth.
As she stepped up to the door, she realised that she really could smell wine.
