‘You shouldn’t have come out here, Maggie. You’re still alone out here, you know. Just as much as you were when you were at home.’

Maggie shrugged. Fry watched her carefully. They were close enough by now for her to gauge Maggie’s reactions without being completely misled.

‘Maggie, I know about your daughter,’ said Fry. She saw Maggie lift an eyebrow a fraction. It was her left eyebrow that moved, while the right one merely twitched like a facial tic and settled into its bed of red scar tissue again. ‘I know you had your daughter adopted.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Maggie. ‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me.’

‘Your sister told me,’ said Fry. ‘But it was a long time ago, wasn’t it?’

Maggie walked a few yards further on, hunching her shoulders and turning up her collar when the wind cutting between the boulders caught her in the face, on her damaged side.

‘Do you have memories of your daughter?’ asked Fry. ‘It might help to let the memories come.’

‘You might be right,’ said Maggie quietly. ‘It could have happened about here.’

‘You shouldn’t just bury it, Maggie.’

‘I still don’t remember exactly. It’s a wonderful view. You can see forever from here. Right down the valley. Right across the hills to Chatsworth.’

‘Maggie –’

Maggie sighed. ‘Do you blame me?’ she said.

‘No. But does that make it any better?’

Then Maggie touched her. It was the first time they had touched each other since they had met. A week ago, that was. A lifetime away.

Maggie put her hand on Fry’s sleeve and gently drew her towards the edge of the rock at the base of the tower. They stood close to the drop, with the wind whipping round their ears and stirring their hair. They were elbow to elbow, with Fry standing, as always, on Maggie’s left side.

Fry’s injured leg was throbbing from climbing up the rocky slope. She knew she had done too much, pushed herself too far. Her heart and lungs were struggling with the effort of breathing in the face of the wind. She waited to hear what Maggie had to say, not knowing what she hoped for.

‘There’s the train, look,’ said Maggie.

A trail of steam was emerging from the trees towards Rowsley, as the Peak Rail train ran along the far bank of the Derwent near Churchtown and the houses on Dale Road.

‘It’s the last train of the day. They’ll be shedding the engines at Darley Dale station. They don’t run as far as Matlock in November.’

Fry realized Maggie was directing her attention away – well away, towards the centre of Matlock and her own home. The smell of smoke was strong; it seemed to reach her all the way from down in the valley.