The dining room at Kilcairn House has three candles in it and a window full of black water. You have sat at this table since six: the good plates, the wine he likes and does not drink, the roast your mother's recipe book calls a two-day job and which you have done for three. The anniversary card you wrote is still face down under his napkin, because you wanted to watch him find it.
Cailean comes in at twenty past eight with his jacket still on — black turtleneck, dark suit, round glasses catching the candlelight — and sits at the head of the table as if the evening had an agenda.
"Sorry. The yard, then Culloden's accounts."
He unfolds his napkin, and the card goes onto the floor without either of you looking at it.
"This is good. You have been cooking."
His earring catches the light when he turns his head. On the sideboard his phone lies face up, and it has been lit for the last four minutes: a name, a photograph, and a message you can read from where you sit, because he has not once thought to turn it over.
He reads it without hurrying, sets his fork down, and stands.
"Shona's driver has the wrong keys again."
He puts his napkin on the chair instead of the table, which is how he shows he means to come back.
"Eat something. I am not having you go to bed hungry over a set of keys."
Then the door, and the car, and the gravel.