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saw a nod, but his movement was so faint and her senses so dulled from exile, she couldn’t be certain.
     
    All trace of tenderness or friendship left Saor’s features. His eyes grew hard, as though he suddenly remembered what she had become. “Go, Eilidh. Your life is forfeit if you stay here.” In a blur, Saor touched her cheek before disappearing into the trees. The rocks at her feet vibrated as he cast his words into the stone. “Go,” they said.

    No longer able to stand the memories of what she had lost forever, Eilidh turned and ran.

    ***

    Munro didn’t remember deciding to go into the woods. He tried not to think about it, because he didn’t remember how he got there. All he knew was that something was missing. Confused and feverish, he wasn’t entirely sure what it was missing from .
     
    He did recall waking up in the hospital. Someone had taken off his stab-vest and utility belt, but he still wore his uniform when he woke up in A&E. He’d heard Getty telling someone that Munro had questioned a witness who’d had some kind of seizure. The doctors had instructed Getty not to worry. His partner was in good hands, they’d said.

    Those good hands came by and took blood, checked his temperature and blood pressure, and wrote on charts. Nurses asked him questions for which he could make no coherent answer. He felt as though he’d been drugged. His words slurred and his vision warped like he was floating under water. The clearest thing in his mind was her . The way she looked at him pierced his clouded mind. “Ears,” he said. They were so cute, the way they curled at the top, but those eyes made him take her very seriously. Beautiful, yes. Delightful and enchanting, definitely. But absolutely dangerous. He hoped and prayed she wasn’t involved in the murder at St Paul’s. He knew better than to fool himself. She wasn’t some innocent waif.
     
    A face appeared in front of him. “Do your ears hurt, Mr Munro?”

    “Twisted,” he replied, exhausted from the effort.
     
    “All right then, pet. I’ll tell the doctor,” she said. In a quieter voice, as though speaking to someone on the other side of the room, she added, “‘Twisted,’ he said. His fever isn’t coming down.” She tutted, and Munro felt the curtained cubicle empty.

    The Accident and Emergency department was never completely silent. He’d been here plenty of times to take accident reports, interview victims, respond to reports about stab injuries and the rare gunshot wound. Long ago, he’d come when his dad fell ill with cancer. He pushed that unwelcome memory aside.
     
    Munro opened his eyes. He felt strange, but at least he could focus. He was, as he had suspected, alone. His eyes turned to the east. Beyond the hospital and the city and the river, she was there. Something called him. It wasn’t her that called, but whatever it was, it drew him. He had to find out who she was, what she was, and…then what? He didn’t know. His mind would surely clear by the time he got there.

    Getty must have taken his stab-vest and utility belt, because they weren’t in the cubicle, but that was okay. Munro checked his pockets. He had his wallet, keys, and his shoes. They hadn’t had the time to get him properly undressed and into a hospital bed. If he didn’t hurry, they’d be back to do just that.
     
    He didn’t have any trouble getting out of the hospital. No one thought to stop a cop from doing anything. One of the benefits of his job was that people saw the uniform, not the face. He reached the doors before he heard someone behind him say, “Have you seen the policeman who was here a moment ago?”

    Outside, it took a minute to get his bearings. He walked down the hill toward the car parks, going right past the buses, down Rose Crescent and toward the Queen’s Bridge. Along the way, things got hazy. He quit thinking about walking—quit thinking about anything. He just moved, closer and closer to…something.
     
    She could