difference. Have a sniff if you like.” He picked one up in his gloved hand and hefted it a couple of times before holding it out to Zach.
“No, thanks, I’ll take your word for it,” Zach said, recoiling. The heart nestled perfectly in the palm of the butcher’s hand. He was suddenly sure that Dimity Hatcher didn’t want it for culinary purposes, and if it wasn’t food then it was . . . what? Entrails. He swallowed.
“Do you ever get any in less than a day old?” he asked, aware that he was beginning to sound weird. But the young man smiled affably. Perhaps he was used to even odder requests.
“Well . . . let me think. Tuesday’s probably your best bet. I can keep one back for you, if you like? If you come in first thing it’ll still be less than a day old.”
“Tuesday? That’s longer than I wanted to wait.” Zach eyed the heart still sitting in the butcher’s hand. “I’ll take that one. Like you say, I’m sure it’ll be fine even if it’s a bit over the time limit.” The butcher wrapped it up with the hint of a smile on his lips. Zach decided that the damage was done, and to go all out with the weirdness. “Is there a haberdashery near here? Somewhere I can buy pins?”
He found the shop, thanks to the butcher’s directions, and after being briefly bewildered by the range of pins a person could buy, he picked plain old-fashioned ones. All steel, no plastic heads, no fancy sizes. As he came out of the sewing shop, he saw a small stationer on the opposite side of the street, and he paused. He was reluctant to attempt to paint or draw anything, in case it turned out every bit as flat and disappointing as his last efforts. He felt a kind of dread, in case that hadn’t been a blip, or a lack of inspiration at the time. In case he really had spent whatever talent he’d once possessed. It was over a year now, since he’d tried. He went in just to see what they had, and came out with two large sketchpads, some chalks, some inks, pencils, a tin of watercolors with a mixing tray in the lid, and a couple of brushes, one fine and one as thick as the tip of his little finger. He hadn’t meant to spend so much, but being in possession of such fundamental tools felt like seeing old friends. Like remaking a childhood acquaintance. He drove back to Blacknowle with the underlying excitement of having a present to unwrap, waiting for when he arrived.
But the first present wasn’t for him, it was for Dimity Hatcher. He parked at the pub and walked down to her cottage, not trusting his car to make it along the rutted, stony track. As he reached The Watch, he looked down the hill to Southern Farm, eyes searching for a dark-haired figure, moving quickly, precisely. Strange that the way she walked had already embedded itself so firmly into his memory. But there was no sign of life, other than a scattering of beige sheep in the big field behind the house, so he knocked loudly on the door of The Watch.
When Dimity Hatcher opened the door, she peeped out through the crack just as she had previously, and every bit as suspiciously, as though they’d never met before. Zach’s heart sank. Her hair was loose again, hanging down around her face. A loose blue dress, almost like a caftan, and those same fingerless red mittens.
“It’s Zach, Miss Hatcher. I came to see you before, remember? You asked me to come back and bring you some things . . . and maybe to talk about Charles Aubrey a bit more?”
“Of course I remember. It was yesterday,” she said, after a pause.
“Oh, great. Yes, of course.” Zach smiled.
“Did you bring it? What I asked for?” she said. Zach fumbled in his bag for the well-wrapped heart, and held it out to her.
“I wrapped it in newspaper, to keep it cool until I got here.”
“Good, good. Can’t have it gone bad,” she said, almost to herself, and then murmured under her breath as she unwrapped it, wordless sounds that might have been a tune. As soon as the heart was
“No, thanks, I’ll take your word for it,” Zach said, recoiling. The heart nestled perfectly in the palm of the butcher’s hand. He was suddenly sure that Dimity Hatcher didn’t want it for culinary purposes, and if it wasn’t food then it was . . . what? Entrails. He swallowed.
“Do you ever get any in less than a day old?” he asked, aware that he was beginning to sound weird. But the young man smiled affably. Perhaps he was used to even odder requests.
“Well . . . let me think. Tuesday’s probably your best bet. I can keep one back for you, if you like? If you come in first thing it’ll still be less than a day old.”
“Tuesday? That’s longer than I wanted to wait.” Zach eyed the heart still sitting in the butcher’s hand. “I’ll take that one. Like you say, I’m sure it’ll be fine even if it’s a bit over the time limit.” The butcher wrapped it up with the hint of a smile on his lips. Zach decided that the damage was done, and to go all out with the weirdness. “Is there a haberdashery near here? Somewhere I can buy pins?”
He found the shop, thanks to the butcher’s directions, and after being briefly bewildered by the range of pins a person could buy, he picked plain old-fashioned ones. All steel, no plastic heads, no fancy sizes. As he came out of the sewing shop, he saw a small stationer on the opposite side of the street, and he paused. He was reluctant to attempt to paint or draw anything, in case it turned out every bit as flat and disappointing as his last efforts. He felt a kind of dread, in case that hadn’t been a blip, or a lack of inspiration at the time. In case he really had spent whatever talent he’d once possessed. It was over a year now, since he’d tried. He went in just to see what they had, and came out with two large sketchpads, some chalks, some inks, pencils, a tin of watercolors with a mixing tray in the lid, and a couple of brushes, one fine and one as thick as the tip of his little finger. He hadn’t meant to spend so much, but being in possession of such fundamental tools felt like seeing old friends. Like remaking a childhood acquaintance. He drove back to Blacknowle with the underlying excitement of having a present to unwrap, waiting for when he arrived.
But the first present wasn’t for him, it was for Dimity Hatcher. He parked at the pub and walked down to her cottage, not trusting his car to make it along the rutted, stony track. As he reached The Watch, he looked down the hill to Southern Farm, eyes searching for a dark-haired figure, moving quickly, precisely. Strange that the way she walked had already embedded itself so firmly into his memory. But there was no sign of life, other than a scattering of beige sheep in the big field behind the house, so he knocked loudly on the door of The Watch.
When Dimity Hatcher opened the door, she peeped out through the crack just as she had previously, and every bit as suspiciously, as though they’d never met before. Zach’s heart sank. Her hair was loose again, hanging down around her face. A loose blue dress, almost like a caftan, and those same fingerless red mittens.
“It’s Zach, Miss Hatcher. I came to see you before, remember? You asked me to come back and bring you some things . . . and maybe to talk about Charles Aubrey a bit more?”
“Of course I remember. It was yesterday,” she said, after a pause.
“Oh, great. Yes, of course.” Zach smiled.
“Did you bring it? What I asked for?” she said. Zach fumbled in his bag for the well-wrapped heart, and held it out to her.
“I wrapped it in newspaper, to keep it cool until I got here.”
“Good, good. Can’t have it gone bad,” she said, almost to herself, and then murmured under her breath as she unwrapped it, wordless sounds that might have been a tune. As soon as the heart was
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