Intrepid Miles and Molly disembarked from the Colonsay-Oban ferry late afternoon, headed for the Yorkshire dales, hours southeast. Darkness fell, roads narrowed. A disconcerting sign: “GPS inaccurate, one lane ahead, pay particular attention to oncoming traffic.”
“Miles, what? Late night, cattle path to Aylsgarth. Have you ever paid ‘particular attention’ to anything?”
“We’re going.”
Molly comes to, surrounded by white coats and scrubs. “This isn’t ‘The Rectory’ at Aylsgarth, is it?”
“You’ve been unconscious three weeks. Miles died, leaving this message: ‘Molly, dearest, I swerved to take the collision’s brunt, shielding you. Remember always, I was paying particular attention.’ ”
“Miles, what? Late night, cattle path to Aylsgarth. Have you ever paid ‘particular attention’ to anything?”
“We’re going.”
Molly comes to, surrounded by white coats and scrubs. “This isn’t ‘The Rectory’ at Aylsgarth, is it?”
“You’ve been unconscious three weeks. Miles died, leaving this message: ‘Molly, dearest, I swerved to take the collision’s brunt, shielding you. Remember always, I was paying particular attention.’ ”
