Will had arrived late, the faded September twilight long gone, but the moon had been bright enough to find the secreted house key among the geraniums. He woke now in panic in the darkness, strangely disorientated, though a tiny shaft of light was trying to force its way in. Without his noticing, morning had come.

He leaped from the bed in a rush, and worried at the window catches. The wood had swollen in the rainy weather, and the shutters stuck for a moment before his fingers understood them. Then instantly he was bathed in intense light. It was a perfect early autumn morning, the lowlying mist already pierced with sunshine. The myrrh scent of roses came in with the light and the moist air, blending with the distinct note of French lavender from a hedge somewhere below. Such bittersweet memories stole in with the smell, but at least they restored some sense of calm and drove the haunting faces that had crowded his dreams from his mind.

He had forgotten about the immersion heater last night, but he was desperate to shower off the dust from yesterday’s long ride from Lucca. He found the cool water refreshing, sorry only to lose the heat that might have eased the stiffness in his body. His Ducati 998 was definitely not a touring bike: it was like a tetchy supermodel. Breathtakingly quick, absurdly demanding, yet exhilarating to ride, it suited Will’s humor and eccentricity to perfection; but over long stretches without a break it was uncomfortable, if he were honest. His knees had been cramping a little in the leathers late yesterday, but he shrugged that off. You had no business riding such a bike if you were fainthearted.

His face in the mirror confirmed his mother’s view of him as “an angel a little fallen”; he resembled an extra in a Zeffirelli film, he thought, his jawline outlined with dark stubble. He laughed with shock, recognizing that at this moment the look would unsettle even her. There was something manic in the face laughing back at him, and he knew he hadn’t kept the demons of his journey from getting a little too close to his soul.

He pared—rather than shaved—away the growth of several days, and wiping soap from the razor he suddenly noticed a slightly faded rose which had dried perfectly in an old ink bottle by the sink. Perhaps his brother, Alex, had brought someone there in the last couple of weeks? He had been so immersed in his own thoughts lately, he hardly knew anyone else’s movements. He smiled, intrigued at the idea.

“I’ll call him early this evening,” he said aloud, surprised at the unfamiliar sound of his own voice, “once I get to Caen.” The ferry wasn’t leaving until nearly midnight; but right now, he had things he wanted to do.