Keir lost the green turn again, though there was no green turn left to lose.
His hand kept reaching for it. Eleven years of a movement did not cease because he had knowingly let the movement go. At the west bridge he drew the thread too low, tried to correct it and scattered a pale curve across the water.
A passer-by applauded.
He wanted to throw something.
Instead he smiled, gathered the course and started again.
By the time he finished, Blythe would be waiting. They had agreed he would come for the last of the stew. She would have completed her own work, set the table, begun some small task to avoid admitting she was listening for his knock.
He knew that listening now. He did it when she came to him.
He could go home. Keep his word about the hour and accept that the course would be…
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