It was a pewter day. The sky was a seamless grey, the same colour as the lake, the water pleated by the wind. This country was flat, cut to shape by hedgerows and rivers, the occasional copse of trees, a shabby gathering of cottages.
‘No hills,’ Gideon muttered, pulling Tinker’s bridle.
Back home, they’d had the black mountains at their backs, an anchor dividing the air from the land.
Out in this wild place a ribbon of trees was all that separated the water from the fathomless sky. Unpick the green thread and the world might unravel. Could he make a life out here, in this unfinished place?
‘Come now, my brooding tailor.’
Kate was beside him. Her belly was showing now, hard and solid as the black mountains of home.
She smiled. ‘Almost there,’ she said, slipping her hand in his.