“Look after yourself, babe.” Simon handed Lucy through the barrier and put an arm around Grace’s waist. She stepped onto Eurostar and sank into her seat in sadness. This was no longer the trip she’d been anticipating for the last few days, and she wished the phone hadn’t rung last night. But it was a trip she was determined to make, and she hung on to the compelling feeling that she would satisfy some unspecified desire and deal with the problem of Dr. Alexander Stafford later. The Three Fates were in league against her and she must, sensibly, resign her hopes with him. But some other very different destiny was out there for her; and she would find it.

ALEX PICKED MAX UP FROM CRABTREE LANE EARLY THAT MORNING TO GIVE a distracted Anna a head start north to her family where her mother, he learned more fully, was about to undergo exploratory surgery. He sounded upbeat for her sake and gave her some good advice and a few reassurances. He decided to take Max out for breakfast as a treat, then dropped him at school; but when he drove back home with the groceries, weariness crept over him. This was his first day off for weeks, and he was at a loss how to fill it. He’d mark some of his students’ papers. He’d go for a walk along the river. He’d read for a while. All he wanted to do was call Lucy. To say what? She wasn’t happy with him. Her rational brain understood his dilemma. Her emotional being was undermined. He’d let things cool down a little, he decided. Then he picked up his phone and dialed her cell.

“Yes?” Her voice unreadable. She must have seen his number ID.

“Lucy.”

“Alex?”

Since she was steeling herself to cope with disappointment her voice was crisp. He couldn’t phrase anything. He wanted to remind her to take her medication with attention to French time, to eat something regularly, to stay warm—which was really an excuse to communicate how strongly he wished he were with her. But she’d resent him overcosseting her—a poor substitute for his presence. He felt wrong-footed, and said simply, “Good luck tonight.” She said nothing; and he spoke again in no more than a whisper. “‘Tread softly…’” He had no idea if she knew Yeats’s poem, but it was all he could say to her.