Rowland, she realized, was moving around the room very fast. Having displayed such impressive equilibrium earlier, he was now looking agitated. He was closing the wooden shutters to the tall windows, switching on lamps. For the first time, Lindsay began to take in the oddness of the room. It was perfectly proportioned, and it was paneled; there was a beautiful old fireplace next to her that showed evidence of recent fires. It was also the barest, the most monastic room she had ever been in. Apart from the chair in which she sat, a table piled high with books, and shelves overflowing with books on the far wall, it was almost completely empty. There were no radiators and it was bitterly cold.

“I wonder,” said Rowland, looking distinctly ill at ease now. “Is it a bit chilly in here?”

“It’s polar, actually, Rowland. I’m getting frostbite.”

“The fire. I’ll light the fire. That should help.”

He began piling kindling, paper, and logs in the fireplace. He contrived to light the fire with one match, something Lindsay could never do.

He rose, and backed away. “A drink,” he said. “Yes, you’d like a drink, I expect. I do have whiskey. On the other hand, you’re driving—”

“It’s all right, Rowland,” Lindsay said, taking pity on him. “I’m not planning on staying, I promise you. Relax. This is work. I’m going to show you this article, then I’m out of here. Meantime, one small whiskey would be excellent—and it wouldn’t do any harm.”

“Fine. Fine.” Rowland still looked anxious. “Right. I’ll just get the whiskey, then. It’s in the kitchen, I think.”

He disappeared at a rapid pace. Lindsay listened to his feet clattering down the bare staircase. She rose and began to walk around the room. There was one other element, which she had not noticed immediately. The entire wall behind the chair on which she had been sitting was covered with black-and-white photographs. Mountains. Peak after jagged peak. Lindsay, who feared and disliked mountains, bent to peer at them more closely. They were annotated, she saw, in Rowland’s clear and beautiful handwriting. Each peak was identified, and beside it was a date, and further notes. Some of the notes referred to weather conditions, others, presumably, to routes, but they were in an incomprehensible jargon, packed with words like “arête” and “corrie,” which Lindsay did not understand. Max had said Rowland climbed, and Lindsay had envisaged modest rockfaces. Surely he had not climbed these?

Rowland returned a few minutes later with two glasses, a bottle of scotch, a small jug of water, and a saucer containing salted peanuts.

Seeing Lindsay bent toward one of the photographs, his manner at once warmed.

“That’s Sgurr Na Guillean.” He indicated a fearsome peak, crested with snow. “In the Cuillins, on Skye. I traversed the ridge there last month. The weather was extraordinary—completely clear for two whole days. I spent Christmas night bivouacked just there.”

He pointed at a sheet of sheer snow, with a vertigo-inducing drop below it. It looked to Lindsay like the most inhospitable place in the world.