Her reserve had intrigued him-he’d taken it for shyness-and he’d found the seriousness with which she approached her studies endearing, even amusing. “Bloody arrogant, condescending idiot,” he said aloud, his mouth twisting with disgust. He’d assumed knowledge of her that he hadn’t earned, and had paid the consequences when she left him without a word. And now, more than ever, they were two strangers, made more so by the awkward history between them.

How had she changed, he wondered. Would he even recognize her?

Then the side door of the house opened and set his fears to rest, for her face was as familiar as his own. She came out to him, her plimsolled feet crunching on the gravel, and took his hand as easily as if they had parted on good terms only yesterday. “Duncan. Thanks so much for coming.” She tilted her head to one side, considering him as she kept hold of his hand. “I’d swear you haven’t changed a bit.”

Finding his tongue with an effort, Kincaid said, “Nor have you, Vic. You look wonderful.” She looked tired, he thought, and too thin, perhaps even a little unwell. A network of tiny lines had begun forming round her eyes, and the creases between her nose and the outer corners of her mouth stood out sharply. But her hair, though it fell now to her shoulders rather than the small of her back, was still flax fair, and if she wore more somber colors than the pastels he remembered, they gave her a dignity which suited her.

“It has been a long time,” she said, smiling, and he realized he’d been staring.

“Sorry. It’s just… I don’t quite know what to say and I think I’m making an utter fool of myself. Is there an etiquette manual for this sort of situation?” In the moment’s silence following his words, birdsong swelled from tree and thicket, a raucous chorus, and a coal tit whizzed past his head, scolding.

Vic laughed. “We could always invent one. Why don’t I start by inviting you in. Your car should be all right with the top down, at least for a bit.”