9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev
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“Ronstadt?” Grant asked.
She shook her head.
“Heidler?”
“Just Bishop.”
Grant looked at her closely. “Shall we send someone else after Ronstadt?”
“I think that there’s no need to waste any more of our people. Let’s not let anything divert us from the real task. Preparing for the Great Coming.”
Grant nodded slowly. “I think you’re right. Maybe we should keep Bishop’s passing to ourselves. For now.”
“Good idea,” said Milandra and smiled. It felt like the first genuine smile to touch her face in days. It felt good. “We’ve a trip to make ready for. A pilgrimage of sorts. We’re going to Salisbury.”
* * * * *
A few days later, a battered, bronze Range Rover, a large dent running down the driver’s side, crossed the border from England into Scotland.
In the front sat two men. In the back, two women with, between them, a black, sleeping dog.
One of the women slept, too. The cuts and bruises that had covered her face had faded and healed to faint purple blushes and pocked scars. Within a day or two more these, too, would fade. The broken bones had already started to knit together, even with only the most rudimentary splints to keep them in place. Her breathing had already become more regular, the tortured wheezing of the punctured lung a memory of the day before. She had only woken twice, to eat painfully but extravagantly. She had not spoken, but had expressed gratitude for the food with her eyes, before slipping back into unconsciousness.
The young man sitting in the front passenger seat was fiddling with his wristwatch. With a large grin that managed to appear happy and tinged with sadness, he turned to the conscious woman behind him.
“If the date on my watch is correct,” he said, “it’s January first. Happy New Year, Ceri!”
The woman smiled, but her face, too, managed to convey gladness and sorrow in the same expression.
“Happy New Year, Tom,” she said.
Tom turned to the man driving. All trace of the lump on the side of the man’s head had gone.
“Happy New Year, Peter,” said Tom.
The man smiled, but said nothing.
The Range Rover headed towards the Highlands, driving through an empty, silent land.
About the Author
When not inhabiting imaginary worlds that no others can see, Sam Kates—who swears he’s sane—lives in South Wales, UK, with a computer and a family. Sometimes he joins them for meals. He has, on occasion, been known to talk to them. To his consternation, they refuse to address him as “Sam.”