passed.’
‘As long as that! It might do for old songs, but this is a new one.’
Pleased with her own mystery, she took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Twelve months and a day.’
He shook his head. ‘But what am I supposed to do in the meantime?’
She twined her hand further around his arm, and they turned to take in the view down the valley, green and grey with mist and pending rain, sodden, budding and fresh with shoots.
‘You can walk in the garden, or the woods, and I’ll haunt you there— or run away to the hills, and I’ll haunt you there, too. Wherever you go, I’ll keep you guessing.’
‘I’m too impatient for guesswork,’ he protested. ‘It’s twelve months and a day too long.’
But even as he spoke, her smile told him that she would neither relinquish the term, nor the beguilement in which she had snared him. So he resigned himself— with the hope of making her either love, or love to hate it— to being haunted.
The end
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