Words, now. The gentle, siren melody, soft as rabbit fur. Notes, ascending, a lilting glissando, breathy against his neck.

Pain. Tightness, in his cheek; frailty in his bones. The all-over ache of fever.

Delirium. Moments of nothingness, then the heat and colour and shades and shapes; voices raised and hushed; soft pressure upon his brow, his neck, his lips

The song. At his ear. At his throat. The sensation of nearness. Of warm skin upon his own.

‘Oh, won’t you come along with me a small piece of the road

To see my father’s dwelling and place of abode?’

He knew by her look and her languishing eye

He was the young man she had cherished most high …

Closes his eyes. Falls back into the warm, safe dark.

Jerks awake.

Sees her.

Dark. Beautiful. Eyes closed. Curled up beside him, clasped hands a cushion beneath her cheek. Her lips pout a little as she sleeps. Her breath, when it comes, is warm against his mouth.

He looks down the length of himself. There is a bandage around his stomach. Beneath a white sheet and a colourful woollen blanket, he is naked. She, atop the sheets, is wrapped in a black, embroidered shawl.

He shifts position, painfully. Hears a long, drawn-out creak, and the earth seems to shift beneath him. He jerks his head around, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He’s laid out on a thin mattress which seems unfeasibly high from the ground, but which is nevertheless close to the ceiling of a rickety wooden ceiling. The light comes from a flickering oil lamp, throwing golden light onto green cupboards patterned with flowers. Squinting, he can make out a small window framed by red curtains, held back by a gold tasselled cord. In the shadow darkness beyond the edge of the bed, he can make out a black stove, its glass window glowing red. A copper kettle throws muddled reflections of green tiles and ceramic ornaments; plates stacked in racks along one wall; a small transistor radio, aerial extended, hangs in a net above a tiny pull-down table. There is a sensation of cosiness, comfort; warmth.

‘Morning, handsome …’

And she is looking at him. Reaching out and stroking the ruched fabric of his face. Her eyes reflect his. He sees the tiny stitches, seaming the edge of an unfamiliar beard.

‘I heard singing,’ he says, his voice a croak.

She smiles. Looks into him. He feels no urge to look away. Feels as though this place, this now, is somewhere he doesn’t wish to spoil. He wonders whether he is dreaming. Whether he’s in a hospital bed somewhere, sedated and hallucinating. He has no wish to make sense of this. Wants to just lie here, and look at her, and hear her song.

‘It’s an old one. You were upset in your sleep. It seemed to soothe you.’

McAvoy licks his dry lips. His head is pounding. He takes a breath. Catches that scent. She smells of the outdoors. Or the air after a storm. Of honeysuckle and elderflower and clothes dried in damp rooms. She pushes herself up and her hair shimmers, an inky waterfall cascading onto her bare shoulder.