“It wasn’t witchcraft, it was genius,” he answered before he could stop himself. It was a habit too hard to break, responding to Hamish.

Rutledge got out as the squall passed, started the engine, and drove too fast though the slanting rain. The inn came up before he expected it, and he nearly skidded as he came to a splashing stop in front of it. Beyond it he could see the spire of the church rising like a spear against the backdrop of storm clouds and wind-tossed trees.

“With your luck, you’d survive the car crash. And live in a chair for the rest of your days, with no one but me for company,” Hamish pointed out, and Rutledge swore.

The inn was small, sway-backed gray stone under a dark slate roof that seemed to be slowly pushing the whole building deeper into the earth from sheer weight. He was expected, and the landlord gave him a room overlooking a small cultivated enclosure in the back, more a tangle of overgrown roses and rhododendron than anything that could be dignified by the name of ‘‘garden.” He unpacked with swift efficiency and in ten minutes was abed and asleep.

He was never afraid to sleep. Hamish couldn’t follow him there.

But Jean could.

In the darkness, hours later, the wind shifted, and the sea’s breath drifted in the half-open window, bringing with it the softness of summer. Rutledge stirred, turned over, and began to dream of the woman he’d loved-and who’d wanted no part of the shattered remnants of the man she’d promised to marry. Jean, who in her own way haunted him too.

She touched his arm, and led him down a path he remembered, and for a time he thought it was real, that she was there beside him, her hand warm in his, her laughter silvery in the stillness, her skirts brushing lightly against him, and nothing had changed…

3

Breakfast was hearty the next morning, the innkeeper inquisitive.