Sighing, Agnes puts on her bonnet and makes for the door. Before she steps onto the mat, she is forced to pull up short. A torn piece of paper lies at her feet. It looks like it has been pushed underneath the door, rather than through the letterbox. She is forced to bend yet again, to the protestation of her knees.

The paper is of a good quality. Suitable for sketching, and indeed someone has used a pencil to write four faint words upon it.

Agnes peers, pulls it closer.

Did you miss me.

She frowns and turns the paper over. Just that. Not even a question mark.

Who on earth would write such a thing? She cannot imagine anyone sending her notes except Simon, and he called only the other day, after young Ned had left with his white silhouette. Besides, Simon’s correspondence is always a template of formal elegance.

She takes a few steps back to the parlour. ‘Cedric, have you been playing with my sketchbooks again?’

‘No.’ He has pulled The String of Pearls onto his lap and is already engrossed.

Perhaps the writing is too developed for his young hand. But it does look familiar …

‘Did you happen to see who delivered this note?’

The boy shrugs, still reading his book.

Well. How perplexing. She reads the words again, and they touch a chord deep inside her. For the answer is yes: she misses so many people.

One in particular.

He would write her notes. Play games. But it cannot be, not after all these years …

She tucks the note inside her newly dried reticule and leaves the house.

The sharp air cools her flaming cheeks. Frosty cobbles skid beneath her feet, and she forces herself to walk carefully, head down, concentrating on not slipping.

But her mind is running wild.

The man in the naval coat. She had been sure, at the time, that he was not Montague, but she was at a distance, struggling against her encroaching cataracts. It is possible …

She begs herself to stay calm. This is not the first time hope has surfaced. She should not trust it, but it is intoxicating; she can almost taste it in her mouth, like a rich wine.

Maybe Montague read of the Accident abroad. News from home might have been delayed, and perhaps this is the first chance he has had to return since. She must find a way to check the Navy Lists. She must know where he is.

The anticipation is almost more than she can take.

The abbey is always beautiful, but today it is especially so. Inside, the colours he promised her spill in a cascade from the stained-glass windows, right across the floor. Walking over them feels akin to passing through a cleansing stream. She takes a pew in sight of the golden cross. Usually she views it not only as an emblem of Christ, but the crucifixion of her own dreams.