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of her own voice surged back at her.
    Pushing her hood back from her head, Claire shook her dark hair free. For years she had worn it in a sharp geometric bob – blunt fringe, blunt edges resting just above her shoulders – every photo the same: school, graduation, wedding. Then, three years ago when everything ceased to matter, she stopped bothering. Her black hair was long now, lifeless.
    ‘ Il y a quelqu’un ?’
    No one answered. She walked up a couple of steps, then paused and called out again:
    ‘ Allô ? Vous servez, oui? ’
    Now she was at the top of the stairs. Claire found she was standing in a large, pleasant dining room. Exposed stone walls and wooden beams and floors, a timeless room. It felt welcoming, friendly even, despite the fact it was empty. A fire burned fiercely in the hearth. To her left there was a long wooden bar, the bottles and glasses gleaming. The centre of the room was filled with rows of waxed refectory tables, each seating ten and laid for lunch. Knives and forks, bowls of salt, oil and vinegar. Earthenware pitchers of water up the middle of each table and small matching bowls, in place of glasses, face down at each setting.
    ‘ S’il vous plaît ?’ Claire said loudly.
    Still, nothing. She went into the kitchen, peered through the glass in the door, and saw no one. She hesitated, then walked in to the deserted space. The oven was hot, though, and there was the lingering smell of cooking. Thyme, perhaps? Red wine and onions? Claire peered out of a small, square window to a stone yard below, but there were no signs of life there either. No footsteps in the snow, no prints of a cat or a dog. If someone had recently gone that way, they had left no evidence of their presence.
    On the counter, she noticed a round wooden board containing chèvre , a generous wedge of cantal , thick slabs of cured mountain ham and tomatoes. Next to it was a wicker basket of bread. She picked up a piece, then pulled off a corner and ate it. Fresh, pain du matin rather than yesterday’s stale baguette . As if someone had known she was coming.
    Claire looked at her watch and found it had stopped. She tapped the face, but the hands were stuck at ten past eleven, about the time she’d arrived in Montségur. She hesitated, then, like Goldilocks, she took the food and went back into the dining room. No doubt the owner had simply nipped out to run some errand or another. She would settle with him when he came back.
    She sat down at the table closest to the window. She could see her hire car, a layer of snow already covering the windscreen. Even if she decided not to go through with things, she had no choice but to stay in the village for the time being at least. She had no snow chains and no snow tyres.
    Claire helped herself to a glass of red wine from a demi - carafe on the table, amazed to realise she was properly hungry, hungry for the first time in three years. Normal sensations, feelings, were coming back. She smiled. It seemed appropriate that here, at the top of the world, at the end of the world, her emotions should be thawing and coming back to life. She felt she had come home.
    She must have dozed, though she had no memory of laying her head down on her arms at the table. She woke with a start, not sure who or what had disturbed her, only that something had.
    For a moment, she felt calm. Then, the familiar weight on her chest once more as grief tapped her on the shoulder. Today, though, there was a sense of purpose too as she remembered where she was and why.
    A red letter day, yes.
    Claire stood up. The fire had burnt a little lower, her glass and plate were empty and the light was different. When she looked out, she saw the weather had cleared. The snow, sleet and mist had gone and now white clouds were scudding across a piercingly blue sky.
    Claire was keen to be gone now, before she lost her nerve. She was surprised the owner still hadn’t come back, but she left a twenty euro note on the table to