Cormac looked out the window. He loved bluebell season. That heavenly cloud. He didn’t want to mention that, though, for fear of sounding . . . well, whatever.

Sure, just write down how many you’ve picked and we’ll tally it up when I’m back.

There was no answer, and Cormac wondered whether he needed to clarify that that was a joke. On the other hand, if she didn’t get it, being told it was a joke probably wouldn’t help matters anyway. He waited, refreshing his inbox.

I think what I’ll do is just let you count them when you get back and deduct them from the stocktake you already have?

Cormac smiled as he closed the laptop.

Lissa bit her lip and, for the first time, realized she wasn’t, at that precise moment, exactly missing London. It wasn’t just the daffodils that were coming into season; all sorts of plants and bushes were starting to flower, none of which Lissa knew the names of, and the wildflowers were tumbling down and crawling up the sides of the road. It was so fast, there was something new to see every day. And bees! She’d never really seen a bee in the wild before, and here there were great fat ones everywhere; butterflies too, orange and black, with eyes on their wings. It was very slightly amazing.

Chapter 38

Both Cormac and Lissa were rather surprised when they fell out, particularly over someone Lissa had barely met. But Cormac was distracted anyway; he had what Jake would have called his savior face on.

He’d been wandering home late—he would have found it hard to deny that he rather liked the shiny London streets at night: the neon and lights everywhere, the sense of a lot of people with a lot to do. There was always a palpable prickle of excitement in the air; it was never dull. Cormac saw a chap he’d seen before, sitting near the entrance to the nurses’ home, over the vent of a posh office building that, judging by the smell, had a swimming pool in the basement. The vent air coming up was warm, and the man lolling there looked about the age of Cormac himself. He felt in his pocket for his wallet. This wasn’t right. It was a warm, slightly sticky evening, but even so, everyone needed a place to lay his head.

He put the money down quietly, trying not to disturb the figure, who was very still but had his eyes half open.

“Aye, thanks, man,” came a low voice, almost a growl, unmistakably Scottish, and he stretched out a hand. To Cormac’s great surprise there was a badly drawn, but nonetheless recognizable, pinpricked tattoo on the bottom of the grubby pale arm: the clear insignia of his own unit.

“Are you Black Watch?” he asked in amazement.