The woman across the street finished sweeping the patio and leaned on her broom in a moment of fatigue. She was winding down for the night; with a swell of satisfaction, I too locked the door of the shop. Our shop. For now, anyway.

I flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED, and then my body took over, instinctively tensing my muscles to brace me for what it knew was coming. Right on cue, the church bells clanged, and I was no longer in Scotland. They ceased being the bells of Wigtown and became those of Westminster Abbey, ripping through the temperate London air in a celebratory aria I will never forget—because nobody was celebrating with them. The crowd, which practically screamed off the roofs when I’d arrived, was quiet. No cheering. Not even any booing. Just staring, either at us or at the devices in their hands, in icy silence.

For six sonorous clangs, I was back in front of that church. Exposed. Loathed. Ashamed.

The church bells made it hard to forget.

* * *

I trudged up our narrow staircase toward the smell of something burnt, as usual. The flat above the shop was, in many ways, an echo of the books below: tattered, torn in parts, but well loved. The ancient appliances were tricky to regulate even for an experienced chef, which Nick was not, and so the aromas wafting from his general direction come dinnertime were always just left of tempting. Nick had been raised in a place where chores were done before he would ever realize they needed doing, and in these few weeks on our own, I think he’d enjoyed playacting as a civilian—running to the market, doing laundry, scrubbing down the kitchen counters. What was a drudge for most people was a novelty for him, as was the concept of cooking dinner for us every night.

“Evening, Margot,” Nick said, greeting me at the door in an apron with a sketch of a carrot on it, his sandy hair sticking up haphazardly. “How’s the shop?”

“Hi, Steve,” I said, kissing him deeply. “You taste like butter.”

“All good cooks sample their ingredients.”

I wiped a smudge off his face. “But you’re technically not a good cook.”

“Not yet,” Nick said. “But I’ve come a long way from burning lasagna.” He made a voila gesture at the dining table, where two charred circles sat on mismatched, chipped dishes. “Now I’m burning meat pies.”

“These look almost edible!” I said.

“See?” Nick clapped adorably. “I’m really improving.”

I tossed my glasses onto the table, where they landed next to a copy of the Mirror. I didn’t look. Instead, I poked at one of the pies. Black flakes matching the ones on Nick’s cheek came away on my finger.

“Yes, unfortunately, they are indeed only almost edible. The second lot are in the oven now.” He frowned. “They look a bit better. Maybe? I keep wanting to text Gaz a photo, but…”

He didn’t need to finish.