Chapter Twenty

They buried Morag Sinclair on a grey Tuesday morning in the same kirkyard on the hill above the Old Quarter where, Siobhan understood from Melissa’s quiet aside at the graveside, a fisherman named Emlyn Spencer had been laid to rest four months earlier, the two graves now separated by barely a dozen plots, two deaths from the same slow, patient architecture resting within sight of each other on a hillside that had apparently grown considerably more crowded with this particular kind of grief than any town should reasonably have to bear.