V
Dear Tom
Terrific news that you’re coming back, old thing.
It must have been quite a summer. Celia was in Paris, building barricades; she was arrested, and only released in August. She managed to throw something at Pompidou; our parents are furious, of course.
She’s back in England and says she’s had enough revolution to last her a lifetime. I wonder if you feel the same way?
I’d love to see you, when you’re settled. Tell me where, and I’ll come to find you. Perhaps to that house Celia talks about so fondly. Dear Tom, welcome back and, for a little while flying and hopping alongside her as she walked, a chirping, talkative robin.
She carefully shook out her pockets and threw it the last crumbs from the Swiss bun.
The land was ancient – well, all land was ancient. But, as she descended into the valley, past the church, she felt something, she was certain of it, crazy as it seemed. The first stone was at the edge of a wall, the boundary of the Sevenstones Estate.
I love you. I love you. Peering through a gap in the wall at the sloping circle, the smoke spiralling upwards, the clumps of waxy, cream winter roses in the wet soil against the ancient, long, low house, she inhaled and knew, simply, that she had come home.