The idea made her laugh in spite of herself. No, her dreams of Oliver had never been to do with marrying him. Why then had she made such a heretical confession to her learned spinster tutor? She had wanted to needle that secure academic complacency, perhaps because it no longer had any bearing on her own life. But perhaps too she had been expressing a much deeper longing to have and to provide security, faced with the crumbling of her own family.

Perhaps.

Helen paused in the middle of Magdalen Bridge and looked upwards. Against the pale sky soared the height of Magdalen Tower, perfectly beautiful and timeless above the stream of cars and cyclists. It was Helen’s favourite sight in Oxford and it reminded her that she was leaving.

On one side of her, the river curved around the formal lawns and beds of the Botanic Gardens. On the other, between separate arms, it enclosed the mysterious tangle of dark trees called Addison’s Walk. Quickly, Helen crossed the road and ducked through into the cramped porter’s lodge of Magdalen College. She would make the circuit of the walk for the last time as a way of saying goodbye.

She passed through the vaulted stonework of Magdalen Cloisters, her feet echoing on the worn stone flags, came out into the light again through an arch of iron gates, then slowed her pace again under the tall trees. The river was slow-moving here, reflecting the bare branches back at the sky. The banks bare now, but in the spring they would be vivid with crocuses and daffodils. Later, in the summer, the punts would slide past here loaded with noisy parties or with silent, absorbed couples.

Sadly, she wouldn’t be here to see any of it.

Yet as it always did the quietness of the setting soothed her. Even though it lay in the middle of a busy town, the place felt utterly remote.

Helen walked slowly, drinking in the cold air and letting the clamorous voices inside her head subside. Later she would have so much to arrange, but now she had her moment of peace.

She was at the outermost point of the circuit where there was no sound but for her own footfalls on the path, when she saw someone leaning on the low wall to stare into the water. At first she didn’t recognise him, but then she saw the black hair ruffled by the wind and a dark frown of concentration.

It was Tom Hart.

He looked up and saw her at once, leaving her no chance of slipping by unseen. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, unsmiling.

‘Yes. Are you?’ She noticed that there were creases of tiredness around his eyes. He was unshaven and the dark stubble emphasised the leanness of his face. Helen suddenly saw how good-looking he was, in a way that couldn’t have been more unlike Oliver’s clear, classical beauty.