Page 142 of Secret Paths

“Did you buy these?”

“No. I wrestled them from a bridesmaid at Morton Hall.”

“That would not surprise me.”

“She was very strong.”

“Most bridesmaids are.”

He hands me the wine.

His left hand is bare.

So is mine.

Ridiculous thing to notice when I have spent nine days carrying the answer in my bag.

The ring box is tucked beside my purse, my keys, two pens, a crumpled appointment card and an apple I no longer trust. It is small enough to hide in my palm and heavy enough to have altered the gravitational pull of my entire week.

I take a sip of wine.

Too large.

Peter’s eyebrow shifts.

I put the glass down. “How is Hunter?”

“Currently pretending the new booking system is a temporary inconvenience rather than a personal attack.”

“Is it?”

“A little.”

“And Alexandra?”

“Plotting.”

“That is not news.”

“No, but this plot involves a Christmas fair, three school choirs and a donkey.”

I stare at him. “A live donkey?”

“That was my question.”

“And?”

“She changed the subject.”

“Terrifying.”

“Deeply.”

He turns down the heat under the pan and reaches for the dish on the side.

Cottage pie.

The first meal he cooked in this kitchen. The meal Alexandra accidentally interrogated. The meal that should probably have its own plaque in our history by now.