Adela wrote six invitations before she managed one she could send.
The first sounded like a meeting. The second apologised for a decision she had not yet stated. The third mentioned Sennen twice in four lines and somehow made dinner sound like an obligation to prove they still loved her.
She deleted that one too.
It was late August. The workshop door stood open to let out the heat, and a strip of blue fabric hung from her pocket because she had forgotten she put it there. In a little over a week it would be four years since Sennen died. The tablecloth was Rhoswen’s; the table was hers. Adela had been confusing those kinds of ownership for a long time.
Oswin rang at lunchtime.
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“Was it a biscuit?”
“A sandwich. I’m becoming alarmingly competent.”
“I thought you were already competent.”
“Only for other people.”
He…
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