Scotland was doing this on purpose: ray after ray of sun breaking through the morning clouds, revealing fields so green they could have been made of neon; nearly grown lambs tearing about in joy; towering peaks overhead sheltering little stone villages huddled around market squares in their lee. The air had a catch of cold early-morning mist in it; you could feel it in your throat, but also you could smell, feel, a warm day ahead, when the scent would rise off the heather, where your hands would trace the high, high tops of the wildflowers, intertwined everywhere with butterflies and bees.

Groggy still, as well as feeling the aftereffects of the gin—plus, the shock of the change between grimy Euston and here was like jet lag—she stared out the window, her chin on her hand. What a privilege it had been, in the end, she supposed, to get to come here. It was annoying in a way that the human resources people and the therapists and her friends had all been right. It had done her good. Okay, she didn’t get everything . . . but that had been a silly fantasy. It shouldn’t—it mustn’t—define her stay, define her, take away what she had gained from the amazing country.

She stepped out into the early pink morning, Kirrinfief still quiet, apart from old Mrs. Whirter trundling up with her cart to hit the newsagent first. She waved to Lissa and, completely ignoring the fact that the girl looked exhausted, was carrying an overnight bag, and obviously just wanted to go home, immediately jumped into the bunion conversation again.

Three months ago, Lissa would have given a half smile and hurried on. This morning, she put her bag down and let the whole story—involving evil daughters-in-law and, for some reason, an Irn-Bru margarita—unfold, before promising to squeeze in an extra appointment and pop in later once she’d gotten herself squared up. Mrs. Whirter smiled broadly and said that wouldn’t be necessary, a chat with Lissa was a tonic in itself, and wasn’t it a terrible shame she had to leave?

Fortunately her eyes weren’t quite good enough these days to see the rapid tears forming in Lissa’s.

THE ROAD TO the little cottage was wildly overgrown, the hedgerows riotous and crazy from the never-ending sun and rain, sun and rain. Lissa took in their morning scent as the sun began to slowly rise, lifting the mists off the loch. The birds sounded in the trees; barely a car passed to disturb them, or her thoughts, as she trundled her suitcase behind her.

The little house looked sweeter than ever to her as she stepped up to the doorway, put the big old key in the lock.