I shiver and stumble as I scramble up the rocks. Faro’s gone, and the rough gray surface of the sea hides everything. Why didn’t I leave some dry clothes up on the rocks, above the tide line? Because you didn’t know you were going to Ingo, of course, you idiot. And now I’m freezing, shaking and shivering as I climb over the grassy lip of the cliff and start to scramble up the path. Bony fingers of last year’s brambles snatch at my hands. Up the path, up the track. What’s going to happen when I get home? I’ve been gone for hours. I was sitting in the sun when Morlader came to fetch us, and now it’s evening. I reach our gate, dodging in past the rowan tree and through the door. We never bother to lock the cottage unless we’re going away. I hope no one saw me running up the track with water dripping off my clothes. “Conor? Mum? Roger?” I call. But I know they aren’t there. You can always tell if home is empty, because it has a completely different feeling.
