Is from her heart within;’

He pitched left.

‘Her warm kiss is felicity

That knows no taint of sin.’

He pitched right.

‘And, when I stir my foot to go,

Tis leaving love and light’

Centre line, change of leg at X.

‘To feel the wind of longing blow

From out the dark of night.’

Luca might be having difficulty waking in a straight line, but compared to his hard-drinking heyday he was barely over the yardarm. And to his monumental relief he’d found he could stop, hold his hand up and walk away from the offers to make a night of it, promises that his drinks would be free, his supper sung for. He wanted to whoop, to stand on a fence rail and shout to the valley, ‘Look at me, I am calling it a night and it’s early evening!’

From the first drop to now, his greatest fear had been that of gathering momentum like a meteor, the out-of-control drinking that always ended in unconsciousness. The drinks had kept coming when he played, still pressed on him after he’d decided he’d had enough. It had made him feel feather light and intoxicatingly exhilarated again, his fingers only able to remember their way through the tunes at top speed when his head was spinning too fast to think. That he had turned and walked away afterwards without a second glance almost shocked him.

He didn’t end up in a ditch. Nor did he try to serenade Pax’s dark, curtained cottage windows. He’d handed the violin back for a start, and she’d made it clear enough that she had no desire for his half-cut company. The memory of opening his eyes from a kiss that had nourished his soul only to see her racing off across a field wasn’t a great one.

He went to check on Beck and the other horses, realising from the amount of hay in nets and the fresh water with no strands it that she’d already been round.

He turned back to look at the cottage. He wanted to know she was okay, but he could feel himself swaying a bit now that he was standing still.

Beck watched him, the insomniac who missed nothing. His neighbours were asleep, old Cruisoe curled up in deep shavings with his gold and black legs tucked underneath him, the little Shetland flat out, his big stomach like a fluffy white snow mound in straw.

Luca’s phone found the signal sweet spot with a buzz and he checked how many times the Unknown Number had called. Twenty. Still no messages. His battery was on its last gasp.

He went back to feed Beck a mint. ‘Have you been involved in an accident that wasn’t your fault?’ He impersonated a recorded telemarketing voice. ‘Sure I haff.’ He tried a German accent with a vague recognition that he must be wasted to wisecrack at a horse. ‘Can I haff ze compensation if some Scheisskerl tried to taser me und lame me for life? Shut up, Luca.’ He marched out onto the yard, slapped his arms and face to try to sober up, to shake the menacing vision of a black-windowed car sliding up the drive, Mishaal stepping out, bringing with him a white-coated vet with a lethal injection, a brace of heavies with sledgehammers and his new bride with a shotgun for good measure.