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Eadlin?”
    Fergus felt his fingers flexing around the handgrips of his crutches, and swallowed the urge to tell the man to mind his own bloody business. Fergus had seen the reaction to the name, and he forced himself to stay calm. This man knew her.
    “She helped me, last year. I wanted to thank her.”
    “You’d best ask the landlord. He may know.”
    “You’re not the landlord?”
    “Nah. Only helping out. Landlord’ll be back later.” Fergus stared at him, wondering why the surly manner was now almost hostile. Hanging behind the man’s shoulder was a mirror, partially obscured by bottles, reflecting the pub’s windows and the street outside. A woman was walking past, her long blonde hair flowing past her face in the breeze. There was something familiar in that hair and in the way the woman walked. He spun around, but too late to see her face.
    “Who was that?”
    “Who was what?”
    “The woman who just walked past. Blonde hair.”
    “I didn’t see no-one. And I thought you was looking for a redhead. Bit confused, are we?”
    Fergus slammed some coins on the counter and grabbed his crutches, ignoring the snort of derision from behind the bar as he turned away.
    The woman was turning the corner onto the green as he reached the street, disappearing from his view. Fergus swung after her but by the time he reached the corner, pulse racing at the burst of effort, she was half way across the green heading towards the Downs road. She was walking fast, faster than Fergus could manage, in the low-heeled stride of a woman with a mission and no time to spare. A stride like one he had seen many times before beneath a very similar cascade of yellow-gold hair.
    “Kate?” At first Fergus saw nothing strange in his call. It was like catching sight of an old friend after months of absence, or an almost-certain glimpse of recognition in a foreign city. His shout was a cry of excitement and pleasure, which faded into hurt as the woman ignored his call and walked on without turning, hurrying her step. He followed in an awkward, limping gait that was the fastest he could manage, even with his crutches tapping either side to keep him steady. He willed her to turn around before she walked out of sight.
    Fergus’s pace started to slow as the woman reached the edge of the green and passed out of sight up the Downs road, and the illogicality of the moment dawned on him. He came to a halt where he could see up the road, already wincing at his own foolishness. The woman was letting herself into one of the last cottages in the village. The stranger’s face that glared back at him from the safety of her own doorstep was middle-aged, old enough for the long, blonde hair to be an unsuitable vanity.
    Fergus sagged as the reality of what he had done hit him, with the ache of unaccustomed exercise already tightening his limbs. He swore at himself and inhaled deeply, forcing himself to get a grip. His mind had tripped, the way he had stumbled at his first attempts to walk, and Fergus hung between his crutches, tossing his head as if insanity was a bothersome fly. The aches became welcome reference points of physical pain that mapped his healing body.
    Beyond the cottages, the road climbed uphill between woods and a field for perhaps two hundred yards until it ran past a house standing alone in the narrowing valley. There were cars and a van parked outside the house and a bustle of activity. He focused on the hard reality of the people around the house ahead, welcoming the sounds of distant shouts and the solid thump of heavy tools being thrown into a van. It was as good a place to start as any. He launched himself at the hill, punishing himself with the effort.

Chapter Seven
    T WO YOUNG MEN in muddy jeans and anoraks were loading digging tools into the van as Fergus approached the house. They seemed to be clearing up after a morning’s work, although they looked too young, too clean, and too bearded to be workmen. A slender, bespectacled