‘Let’s get you another drink, queen. You need your mind taking off it.’

‘Looks like the wassailers are almost here.’ Carly’s creamy voice was distracted as blazing fireballs on sticks appeared on the Bagot footpath at the far side of the orchard, Morris bells ringing. ‘You still okay to play, Luca?’

‘Sure, we’ll catch you both up.’ Luca’s face was in darkness, his phone ringing again. He still had a cup in each hand, Pax realised.

She turned at the sound of car doors slamming beyond the orchard wall as Mack’s parents prepared to set off, and she fought an almost overwhelming urge to run after them. Watching the headlights of the Forsyths’ car blazing away, her wave was lost to the dark along with her stricken face. Thank you, darkness. She tipped up her chin, just one thought thundering in her head like hooves: Do not cry; you must not cry; I refuse to cry. But all too soon the chasing field of bad thoughts surged past. How soon until I can get back inside Lester’s cottage for a drink? I need a drink, deserve a drink, I must have a drink now. The plum gin is still there. But so are the letters. The bloody, bloody letters. Think about something else. Kes. Oh, Kes. Do not cry. Don’t think about any of it. I need a drink. No. No. No!

‘Breathe, Pax.’

Pax realised Luca was standing very close, his warmth eclipsing her personal space, his eyes on her face in the near dark. She didn’t mind for once, grateful that she had to behave around Luca.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You want this?’ He offered a cup to her, the tang of cider ramped up with a hit of apple brandy and cinnamon.

She stared back at him through the gloom, open-mouthed. ‘Is this a test? Because your timing is pretty harsh.’

‘You’d fail.’

‘I will not fail!’ Do not have that drink, she instructed herself. Another drink, maybe, definitely. Later. In private. And a cry. And a text rant at Mack.

‘Pax, we both know you’re going to get banjaxed tonight.’ Luca withdrew the cup, voice a kind earworm of Irish brogue. ‘Better I keep you company than you do it alone.’ He still had the violin case under one arm, she noticed, like a novelty clutch bag.

‘I’m fine.’ She closed her watering, tree-poked eye again, not prepared to acknowledge the truth out loud. I’ll get home soon. Get plum gin. ‘Arguing would have made it worse. Kes wanted to go with them.’

He said nothing.

She could see the glow of the procession drawing closer along the footpath, the flaming torches ritualistic and pagan. ‘You heard him say it.’

‘Sure I heard him.’ He stepped back, looking up at the sky, a scattering of stars out on show now the clouds had chugged off. ‘I want to go, Pax.’

‘Be my guest.’

‘I. Want. To. Go,’ he repeated carefully.

‘Be. My. Guest!’ she snapped back.

‘Don’t you see?’ His voice had a break of empathy in it. ‘I don’t want to leave you here, just leave this place. With you. I want to go.’