‘In your case,’ said Francis, ‘totally.’ He felt her hands on his sides and imagined that he could understand the strange calm that had taken over the terrified deer when she touched him. Why did she have this tactile genius, and did she have a licence to use it?

‘Didn’t they teach you about non-attachment on the weekend workshop?’ said Hope.

‘They told me there would be exceptions – anything I liked or disliked, for instance. With the things I’m indifferent to, it’s a pushover.’

‘Indifference is not detachment,’ said Hope.

‘Yup, I heard that on the workshop as well,’ said Francis, ‘but don’t pretend for one moment that you want me to be non-attached. Or perhaps you do, once I’m inside you. Is that what you are: an itinerant guru of Ultimate Paradox?’

‘That’s me!’ said Hope. ‘Paradox Dakini.’ She made the whooshing sound of a superhero arriving on the scene of impending disaster.

‘Sure,’ said Francis wearily. ‘We should be heading back; it’s too late to have a proper walk.’

He started to lead the way through the fallen leaves and broken branches.

‘Seriously, though, how come you’re here?’ he asked.

‘I was going to email you, but George and Emma told me that you were off the grid, so they drew me a map.’

‘You’re staying with George and Emma,’ said Francis, struggling between alarm and excitement. For the past six weeks, he’d been thinking of Hope as an obscure torment on the far side of another continent, but now, if things went badly enough, she might end up in his bed in Willow Cottage. No, no, no, no; that was not going to happen, he insisted, noticing how hard he had to step on the brakes.

‘Yes, your name came up at breakfast and we all said what a coincidence it was. Or you could say that it was serendipity, or synchronicity—’

‘You have to pay extra for that sort of thing,’ Francis interrupted. ‘I travel in economy with the coincidences.’

‘What about destiny?’

‘That’s strictly for pilots.’

‘You must have some of those front-of-the-plane feelings,’ Hope insisted.

‘Maybe I do, but maybe I don’t trust them,’ said Francis. ‘Or perhaps I’m just being difficult.’

‘Oh, so, are we arguing after all? How exciting.’

They continued in silence for a while.

‘The thistles are doing well,’ said Francis, the naturalist, walking through the mass of dead brown stalks and sagging heads.

‘Really well,’ said Hope, as enthusiastically as she could.

‘So, how come your parents called you Hope?’ said Francis, playing with the front-door key in his jacket pocket and trying to counter his racing pulse with small talk.