Until it was explained to her that they were a symbol of rebirth, she’d had no idea what the green faces staring out of the leaves and twigs were. Initially, she’d found them rather spooky. Once she knew they represented the cycle of new growth that occurred with every spring, her attitude to them had changed.

She’d starting bringing her sketch pad here and, sitting on this tree trunk, she’d drawn all of the carvings, then added a few imaginary ones of her own.

It was here she’d first encountered him. In fact, it was he who’d explained the carvings to her.

She was startled from her reverie by a burst of music escaping from the distant village hall as someone opened the back exit. Raucous shouts followed from the guys who were hanging about on the steps, drinking and smoking.

She’d already run that particular gauntlet when she’d left the ceilidh, with plenty of offers to walk her home. All the way to her family’s cottage, Forrigan.

The familiar faces of Josh Huntly and his assorted mates had met her at the door. She’d already danced with Josh and a couple of the others, including the shy Finn Campbell, but hadn’t taken anyone up on their offer, knowing full well a walk wasn’t what they had in mind.

Been there. Done that. No longer interested.

She checked her phone, but the waited-for message hadn’t arrived . . . yet.

She took a deep breath of the night air, filled with the scent of pine. The June weather had been warm and dry. Even here, the normally boggy ground and its three amber peaty pools had partially dried out.

The rain will come, everyone said. Hopefully soon enough to prevent a fire in the pinewoods or the moor.

She tried to imagine such a fire . . . the crackling of the bone-dry heather, the whoosh as the pine needles flared up, the hot sweet smell of smouldering peat.

It should have frightened her, but it didn’t. Not until she thought of the green woman and man ablaze. The leaves and winding branches that made up their bodies a mass of fire. Like back when they’d burned women as witches. That was an image she didn’t like.

The crack of a twig underfoot caused her to turn in anticipation.

She rose to greet him, hearing his footsteps cross the needle-strewn forest floor, feeling a surge of desire.

Her smile, at first warm and welcoming, slowly shifted to something very different as she realized the footsteps were multiple, and none of them were likely to be his.

Greg

Now

Blood hit the mirror in a fine spray.

Cursing, he grabbed a towel and wiped his face, his hand and then the mirror.

So much blood for such a small cut.

He was examining the damage when a sleepy Joanne appeared beside him to kiss the wound.