“How was your night in Edinburgh?” I ask. Fiona’s eyes shift to me; I can feel their weight, but I’m focused on Carrie. There’s the merest flicker on her face, a twitch of her shoulder, and then she replies in an entirely casual manner, “Oh, fine. Nothing spectacular.” She’s astonishingly good at the lie. I shouldn’t be shocked—after all, she’s an actress—but nonetheless, I feel the blow land anew, stealing my breath. I had planned to challenge her if she lied to me directly, but I can’t do that now, not with Fiona here. I turn away quickly under the pretense of getting milk from the fridge. When I put the milk carton on the table, Fiona is studying me with something approaching unease around her eyes. She doesn’t look away when she sees that I’m looking back. She knows Carrie wasn’t in Edinburgh, I realize. And she doesn’t like the deception.

“What was the van all about?” says Carrie, when I’ve joined them at the table. Fiona has shrugged off her fleece to reveal a sleeveless T-shirt. Her arms are an anatomy study, every muscle and sinew perfectly defined.

“Security. He’s setting up some cameras for us. He’ll be back tomorrow to finish it off.”

“Because of the bones?” asks Carrie, looking confused.

“Not really.” I really don’t want to go into detail on the fox carcass or the raven until I’m alone with Carrie. “Or maybe, sort of. It made me realize how isolated we are out here.”

“That’s part of the charm, I suppose.” She turns to Fiona. “Stay for dinner?”

Fiona looks at me and I quickly add, “You’re very welcome. Of course.” Carrie glances across at me, warmth in her eyes.

“Okay. Thanks,” says Fiona with a nod. “My dad was planning fish and chips with Callum anyway.”

“Great,” says Carrie brightly. “I’ll just nip to the bathroom and then I’ll get started.”

The kitchen falls quiet without Carrie. Fiona looks at me steadily then reaches out with one hand and rubs the purple paint swatch between her thumb and first finger. I note once again her unusually short nails. I wonder if it’s a riding thing. “Are you trying to turn it back to how it was?” she asks, in a musing tone.

“What?”

“You cannae remember?”

“Remember what?” Then I twig that she means what it was like when I was a child. “Wait, do you?”

“Maybe. It’s hard for me to tell. I can see it this color, but when . . .” She’s frowning, like she’s trying to catch something in her head. “Ach, I cannae tell.”

“Because time is folded here,” I say quietly. “Isn’t that what you think?”

She cocks her head on one side, her hazel eyes gleaming. “Ben?”

I nod. “And Callum.”