‘I’m not …’ I started off, and then, ‘Yes, yes, perhaps. Possibly even closer than I’d initially …’

Quite emotional? That was odd. I tucked this little piece of information away to ponder on later in greater detail.

Brother Linus opened the book again and flipped through it, idly.

‘It’s difficult to pinpoint your accent.’ I yawned. ‘Are you Swiss, Brother?’

‘Belgian. But I speak Luxembourgish. It’s a very particular and quite obscure west-central-German language …’

I yawned again, then promptly apologized (due to various physical restraints, it was virtually impossible for me to cover my mouth as I did so).

‘Don’t worry’ – Brother Linus chuckled, dryly – ‘people invariably start to yawn when I get into the finer details of my cultural and linguistic identity.’

‘Sorry,’ I apologized again, ‘I’m just … I suddenly find myself … just incredibly …’

Tired.

So tired.

Another yawn.

Tired.

‘Don’t give it a second thought.’ Brother Linus smiled. ‘Close your eyes. Get some rest.’

While he was speaking he pulled a long dark wooden rosary from a pocket in his habit, which – dropping down and unwinding to its full length – clattered, unexpectedly, against the leg of the chair as the little metal crucifix made temporary contact with it.

I don’t know how many hours I’d been asleep for, exactly – five? Six? – but I’d certainly been conscious of the return of Brother Cosmas, and registered the sound of a nice, well-modulated woman’s voice at several points (the aforementioned Mrs Thane, perhaps, the ‘crisis’ in the reading room now in temporary abeyance?), although when I finally regained full consciousness, there was nothing remotely ‘nice’ or ‘well-modulated’ about the experience.

It was dark and I was rudely awoken by a sudden heavy weight on the edge of the mattress, followed by a series of guttural exclamations. My eyes flew open and when I lifted my head (alarmed – I don’t mind admitting it) I could just about decipher the outline of an elderly male monk – bent over, infirm, heavy cane leaned against the wall – struggling to settle himself on to the chair at the bed’s head. It was none other than Brother Prosper who – much as during our earlier brief encounter – exuded the fractious atmosphere (and scent, if I can be perfectly honest) of an injured boar badger.

I suddenly missed Mulberry. Which was odd. Why would the sight of Brother Prosper lowering over me, breathing heavily, in the dark, make me miss Mulberry? (I mean it’s hardly as though my personal space … integrity hadn’t been significantly violated there as well.) But I missed it, even so. I missed … What did I miss? I missed the now-familiar individual creaks and groans of the blackened pine floor, the scuff of the rag-rugs and tatty off-cuts of seagrass under my toes, the whine of the old refrigerator. I missed the way the cheap toilet seat clattered down when you least expected it to (a problem with the hinge; well-detailed by myself – you’ll be relieved to know – in the ‘comments book’). Even the old white crocheted blankets. Yes. And the fraying cane umbrella-stand by the front door which I had – twice, now – snagged my trousers on during quick exits. And that infernal picture of the seagull! The herring gull! Hung on the wall in the kitchen-cum-dining area.