Duncan had not slept above three hours, and he had not tried for more.
He left Julie asleep at The Belle and came down the lane to the homestead in the grey before seven, the dew soaking through his boots. A light showed in the kitchen window. Somewhere inside, a kettle was thinking about boiling. Fall came round the side of the porch at a run, tail high, then stopped at the foot of the steps and sat with great dignity, as if he had been waiting there all night.
"Aye, I ken," Duncan said quietly, and rubbed the hound's ears. "I'm no' here to make a fuss."
Colin was on the porch swing with his back against the post and his bad arm resting across his knees. A mug sat on the boards beside him, the chamomile gone cold, the bag still in it. He had not touched it. He had been out here long enough for the damp to settle on his shoulders. When Duncan's shadow crossed the step, he looked up, and his face did what it always did. It smiled. The smile did not reach as far as it should.
