Half covered in lichen and moss, the arch, which once held a stained glass window, looked blindly out across the white countryside. An abandoned nest hung from the weather-worn bricks in the corner, and Genevieve put one gloved hand up to it. The decaying twigs crumbled under her touch, and she rubbed her finger-tips together, breaking up the dusty greyness. She turned to Will Hartley, fixing him with dark eyes. The young man was leaning against a gravestone, his black hair stark against the whiteness of the moors and the grey stonework of the chapel. ‘So is this the last time we’ll be together?’ Genevieve asked. ‘When do you have to leave?’ ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘And when will you be back?’ ‘I don’t know. My father is entertaining colleagues from Europe tonight. I’m supposed to travel with them tomorrow but nobody has mentioned coming back.’ ‘And what are they trying to achieve by doing this?’ ‘I do believe they are trying to keep us apart,’ he said.
