‘That’s enough for today,’ Hennig said. He nodded to the men peeking through the window. They ducked down when they realised they’d been spotted.

‘Town like this, you’d think there’d be more than one inn.’

Hennig frowned. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’

Joining Alexsander, the painter raised a glass to his playing. ‘You can play every day. Rarely get to drink alone when I’m not at home.’

‘Why aren’t there more inns in Drekenford?’ Alexsander said. ‘Folk here seem to like a drink.’

‘Don’t they everywhere? There was another inn. Burned down a while back, a tragic accident.’

Mr Hennig harrumphed from behind the bar.

Marcus leaned close and whispered, ‘Not him. They say it was her that did it.’

The door swung open and, despite Alexsander’s presence, Mr Hennig was soon busy taking orders and pouring ale. As the inn filled up, no one took a table nearby – they were surrounded by a moat of empty tables. Few would meet Alexsander’s eye.

‘She’s not coming,’ Marcus said.

‘What?’ Alexsander said, like a child caught with a hand in the biscuit jar.

‘She says you only play the cheery tunes.’

‘I don’t know who—’

‘She doesn’t like the cheery tunes.’

‘It’s what Hennig wants.’

‘There’s no pleasing her. You’d better get used to that.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I’m sure you don’t, that’s the problem.’ Marcus drained his glass. ‘But don’t worry – you weren’t the first with one of those northern accents that she took a liking to. She knows her way round your kind, with your bumbling and your blushing.’

‘I don’t bumble, and I certainly don’t blush.’

‘You’re doing it right now.’

‘It’s warm in here,’ Alexsander said. ‘And I’ve been singing.’

‘Bumble, bumble, bumble.’

‘What did you mean, I’m not the first?’

‘Ah,’ Marcus said, sitting back, ‘I’ve said too much.’

‘You’ve not said enough.’

‘He was a soldier-type, I think, but refined. Knew his art from his elbow, at least. I liked him, and so did Rebecca, obviously. But eventually he had to go back up north, as you all do.’

‘A soldier?’

‘Yes, Alexsander, do try to keep up.’

‘A soldier,’ he mumbled once more. That seemed significant but he shied from the feeling, cursed man. ‘How long were they together?’

‘Gossip becomes you, did you know that? You look ten years younger.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Oh, very well. But not here. If I have to tell tales then I shall at least do so with decent wine.’ Marcus stood and announced to an uninterested common room that he wouldn’t water his roses with the swill they served there.

In the studio they drank and talked of everything but Rebecca. Sitting among half-finished canvases and those lucky enough to still be unblemished, without the threat of her arrival, Alexsander felt foolish for thinking of her. He was far too old for that sort of thing. All his great, sordid adventures were behind him. And yet, despite the painter’s best efforts and the best efforts of his cellar, Alexsander’s thoughts returned again and again to Rebecca, and her soldier. The affair loomed so large in his mind, I could not help but remember it as day turned to night. Though his assistance was unintentional, and my interest came with very different motives than his own, I was at least grateful for it.