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“Just what is a spout lantern, anyway?” he said. Hannah turned in her seat and pointed up at a rusty metal object on a high shelf, amid green glass floats and old fishing nets, and he recognized it as the kind of distorted watering can that was on the pub’s sign.

“Smuggler’s lamp,” she explained. “There’s a little oil lamp in the main body of it, but the light is only visible if you’re standing directly in front of the spout. A single beam of light, great for signaling and guiding a boat ashore…”

“I see, like a laser beam, eighteenth-century style.”

“Precisely. So, tell me something about the wider world. I don’t get out much,” Hannah said with a smile.

They talked for a while about the gallery and about Elise, and touched lightly on the subject of missing spouses, although Hannah would not be drawn to talk about her husband other than to give his name as Toby. She paused after she said it, as if that single word had the power to rob her of speech. Zach wondered if his body had been recovered, or if he was lost at sea, washed away like so many before him. He had a sudden idea that chilled him. That when Hannah swam, she was looking for him. He remembered the way she had dived, again and again, swimming as much below the surface as above it. He sensed that she was determined enough, resolute enough for this. Strong enough to keep searching, years later, for something she’d lost beneath the waves.

“Do you swim in winter? In the sea, I mean?” he asked.

“Talk about your non sequitur. Yes. I swim all year round. It’s good for you, clears out all the junk.” She looked at him curiously. “In case you’re picturing it, I have a wetsuit for the winter months.” Her tone was wry.

“No! No, I wasn’t picturing it. I… Good idea, though-a wetsuit. Must be freezing otherwise.”

“It’d make your bollocks jump right back up inside your body,” she said dolefully, then grinned. “Luckily, I don’t have to worry about that.” They laughed, rather drunkenly.

“Hannah, have you ever seen anyone else at Dimity’s place? I’ve heard these odd noises, coming from upstairs,” said Zach. She stopped laughing at once, as suddenly as hitting a brick wall. She stared into her glass for a moment, and Zach retraced his verbal steps, trying to work out what he’d said wrong.

“No. No, as far as I know, nobody else ever goes there,” Hannah said. There was an uneasy pause, then she stood up unsteadily. “I should really be getting back. Things to do, you know. Down on the farm.”

“What can you do after all that beer? Stay and finish your pint at least. We don’t have to talk about…” But he trailed off as Hannah turned to go. She looked back, and her delicate features were serious now, and steady. Her eyes looked sharp, not drunk at all, and Zach felt like a fool.

“Come down to the farm, if you want to, another day. I’ll show you around. If you’re interested, that is.” She shrugged one shoulder and walked away, leaving Zach with the beer she’d been drinking and her empty seat, and a sudden, unexpected sense of loss at her absence. Pete appeared and gathered up the empty glasses.

“You look a bit green around the gills.” He shook his head incredulously. “It’s a foolish man that tries to outdrink Hannah Brock. What did you say to her to make her march off like that? Usually once she’s had two pints she’s here till closing time.”

“I don’t know. I really don’t,” said Zach, mystified.

Towards the end of that first summer, Dimity began to daydream about going with the Aubreys to the harvest home, when there would be a huge fête on the village green after the church service; a band and bunting and songs and games. Apple pies that smelled divine. Wilf Coulson had fetched one for her the year before, bringing it to where she was hiding behind a tent, enveloped in the heady, exciting smell of canvas-a once-a-year smell of something different, something fun. Dimity told Delphine all about it, and only left out the fact that she had always longed to be able to explore the fête just like everyone else-to buy a hop garland and play all the games, like skittles, splat the rat, the coconut shy-rather than watching from a hidden place.

Valentina never went to the harvest home; never wanted to go. She curled her lip, sneered at the idea. I’ve no need to watch them play merry-go-bloody-rounds, like they’re all so good and wholesome. Every year she made Dimity spend some time circulating with a tray hanging around her neck, selling posies and charms and tonics. Valentina’s famous Gypsy beauty balm, guaranteed to halt the signs of aging-a sticky mix of lard and cold cream, scented with elderflowers and infused with red dock root for its regenerative properties; or her Romany balm, an arcane brew of the fat from a pig’s kidney, horse hoof clippings, house leek, and elder bark, known to cure any kind of skin complaint, boil, or bruise. The village kids all followed Dimity, calling her names and throwing nuggets of dung, knowing that she couldn’t chase or fight back, not with the heavy tray swinging in front of her. But the Aubreys weren’t afraid of the people of Blacknowle, even if people did whisper that Celeste was his mistress, not his wife; even if they did put their noses up slightly and pretend to disapprove. People still accepted them, and were polite to them. They couldn’t help themselves. Charles was too charming, and Celeste too beautiful; and their daughters were so safe and happy that they didn’t even notice it when the publican’s wife’s lips pinched up the way they did. So this year would be different, because Dimity would be with the Aubreys, and they would shield her.

She was plucking two pigeons when this daydream evaporated, pulling out the feathers a pinch at a time, her fingers moving slowly so she wouldn’t finish before Charles had done his drawing. She sat facing him, cross-legged, with the dead birds in her lap. She’d tied her hair back, but she knew there were still tiny feathers caught up in it. She could see one, hovering at the edge of her vision, up above her eyebrows. A tiny gray feather that trembled in the still air. When she looked up at it, she could snatch a look at Charles too. The intensity of his gaze frightened her at first. He sometimes looked so stern that she expected to be scolded. But gradually she realized that he wasn’t even aware of her gaze. She let her eyes linger on his face, fascinated. A deep crease marked the bridge of his nose, and as the sun sank west, that nose threw a dark, pointed shadow onto his cheek. The cheek had a slight hollow below the ridge of bone around his eye, making a steep line to his jaw, which was long and angular. Studying it like this, Dimity came to know his face every bit as well, perhaps even better, than she knew her own; than she knew Delphine’s, or Valentina’s. There were few times when it was acceptable, or possible, to examine someone for such a length of time.

She fell into a kind of trance as the sun came around to the side of them, creeping slowly, silently, until it lit Charles’s right eye and made the iris flare with bright browns and golden tones. Like a jewel of some kind, or a precious metal. Behind him the sea was a silvery blur, and the short turf she was sitting on was soft and springy; the sky was a vast dome of chalky blue studded with gulls like the daisies on a lawn. Dimity’s fingers went still, stopped plucking, because she didn’t want the world to turn anymore, or time to move on from that exact moment. Warm and still, with Charles’s topaz eyes fixed upon her, and Delphine digging her little vegetable patch behind her, and Celeste cooking with Élodie-something that she could just about smell on the air, drifting towards them. Something savory and delicious, something she would be asked to share.

But she wasn’t, in the end. Celeste came out with a piece of pie wrapped up in tough brown paper, wearing one of her long dresses again, a pale cream color with long, swinging sleeves, belted in at the waist with a plaited cord. She smiled her wide, lovely smile at Dimity, then ruined everything.