The ax had not fallen yet. Because what had seemed an easy thing to say—of course I’ll keep moving, of course I’ll go to Orkney—was, she realized, in fact not at all easy. As she tracked down people’s favorites, coped with the overspill of the now incredibly well-attended toddler story sessions (she could have done ten a week had she been so inclined)—and struggled to get down the main street without saying hello to about sixty people, in a way that made her think this must be a little like what being famous was, it struck her that it would be very hard to give this place up.

Because despite everything, she couldn’t deny it. She was happy.

Ainslee was turning up regularly to work, amazed that social services had been so kind, so understanding and helpful, had actually sent someone around who could help them with the cleaning. Ainslee was so close to her sixteenth birthday, and her mum had made such an effort to be engaged and make sure Ben went to school—she had fervently promised to stop keeping them off and tucking them up in bed with her, although it did mean, Nina had noticed inadently, that Ben had the most tremendous in-depth knowledge of 1980s teen movies—that although there was a case conference coming up, it was highly likely that the whole family would be allowed to stay at home together.

Ben now was attending the local summer camp every day, more or less; occasionally, on a particularly beautiful day, Nina would notice him heading Tom Sawyer–like for the river and would tip Ainslee off, with a slight tinge of regret at having to curtail his freedom.

He had also caused her to break her most adamant rule, the one she had sworn never to be moved on: to never, ever lend a book. Occasionally she would offer to buy back particularly lovely editions if they were in great condition, but no, she was not a library service. She had to live and eat and pay people. Edwin and Hugh got preferential rates, and Ainslee her staff discount, but everyone else absolutely had to pay, otherwise she couldn’t get by.

Except Ben. The child, once unleashed, could not be held back. He tore through the Faraway Tree books, Harry Potter, the adventure series Swallows and Amazons; he read like a dam bursting, and Nina couldn’t find it in her to deny him a word. He was an endlessly familiar sight that summer when summer camp was out, running errands for his mum, then settling himself in the sun on the step like a cat.

With the help of the overworked local headmistress, who was just desperately relieved to be on her break and filling it with a selection of books called things like Breaking Out of Teaching and My Life as an Astronaut, Nina was gently and discreetly talking to Ben about how much fun Primary 4 was, and how many people had moved into the village, so there’d be lots of new kids there who really didn’t know who anyone was. She told him about the trips they would be going on, and how they did all sorts of amazing things like growing frog spawn into tadpoles and frogs. And when the book bus was quiet—which wasn’t often that summer, as the village filled up with walkers and hikers and people who wanted local maps and local history and simply something to enjoy in the sunshine with a pint of local ale, or to keep them company while the rain hosed sideways on their tents all night and they decided to spend their next vacation in the Gobi Desert—she made Ainslee take out her geography and history textbooks, and work away quietly in the corner of the bus, just a little bit.

Her effort was partly for the family, Nina knew, but more selfishly, and deep down, it was something for her. So that even if her romantic life was a disaster, even if her hopes of staying here turned to dust and she had to move to the islands, even with all of those things, she hadn’t done nothing.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Nina spent less and less time at the farm as the Little Shop of Happy-Ever-After became ever busier. After her first disastrous attempt, which involved quite a lot of thrown raisins and Akela hitting the roof, Reading Cubs had become intensely popular; the toddler group never went out of fashion; and book groups were springing up all over the place. Nina would try and find the best of the absolute best for the groups, rather than suggesting something new and expensive, while the little ones liked absolutely anything by Maurice Sendak.

Imagine, she texted to Griffin one night, going into a publishers these days and saying, “I’m drawing this picture book of a young naked boy with his knob out getting baked into a cake—yes, sugar for breakfast—by four Oliver Hardys.”

You sound weird, Griffin had replied.

I’m working a lot of overtime, she typed back. I only think in books. So I’m working too hard and it’s like Hard Times, then I go home and it’s Cold Comfort Farm.

I wish I could think in books, typed back Griffin glumly. We’re not allowed to think about books at all. It’s all about social media presence.

Microserfs?

Oh God, they’re all too young even to have heard of it. Everyone is 23 and they keep trying to get me to come nightclubbing.

I thought you were loving all that.

I’m EXHAUSTED, he typed back. And at risk of alcoholic liver disease. All they do is shout AWESOME at everything. I hope it keeps up till my review. Of course you don’t have anything like that to worry about anymore.

No, typed Nina. No vacation pay either. Or sick days. Or days off.

Boo hoo hoo, James Herriot. I’ve got a ten-page confluence scheduling report to do. And I don’t even know what that means!!!!

They’d logged off and Nina had sighed and tried to go back to reading and feel better that way, but all she could find were romantic heroes that reminded her of Lennox if they were gruff and uncommunicative, or Marek if they were sweet and cheerful, until she thought she was going completely mad. She was restless, not sleepy, and decided she could take a walk—she could, she could—down her old paths without getting too maudlin about it. He wouldn’t be there, he wouldn’t stop, and even if he did, there was nothing more to say. But the exercise might help her sleep; might even give her hope that one day there would be somebody else; that not all romance was dead; that sometimes, maybe, it was just bad timing.

Parsley barked hopefully as she left, but she passed him by and scattered the chickens to wander the lanes by herself. The hawthorn was in full bloom, its scent heavy on the fresh night air. Nina pulled her coat tighter around her and walked on. It was better, she felt, better to be out and about, pondering her future, than sitting indoors in a beautiful home that did not belong to her and soon wouldn’t belong to Lennox either; that would be snatched away by a woman who did not want it; who did not want lovely Kirrinfief or the farm or the little market cross, or the banners that festooned the town square in midsummer; who didn’t want any of it; who would turn it into money and fritter it away.