Quiet, old houses, with all their lights off, nestled at the edge of a village before fading into the stillness of the countryside.
A clear sky, an expanse of dotted stars, a waning crescent moon. The smell of fields.
The two-way twit-twoo of tawny owls. And then quiet again.
A quiet that had a presence, that was a force in the air.
Weird. She had been in Bedford. Then in that strange library.
And now she was here, on a pretty village road. Without hardly even moving.
On this side of the road, golden light filtered out of a downstairs window.
She looked up and saw an elegantly painted pub sign creaking softly in the wind.
Overlapping horseshoes underneath carefully italicised words: The Three Horseshoes.
In front of her, there was a chalkboard standing on the pavement.
She recognised her own handwriting, at its neatest.
THE THREE HORSESHOES Tuesday Night – Quiz Night 8.30 p.m.
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