“No one was there. The range was warm, not hot. She found the right tool and lifted the plate above the fire-box. A few red embers lay half buried among the drifts of soft ash. Aine threw a few sods of turf in on top of them, puffing and waving at the ash clouds that rose, then replaced the plate and went to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Martina!’ There was no answer. Aine went back into the kitchen and looked into the fridge, the bread bin, the fitted presses above her head. There was plenty of fo...od, but the sight of it made her realise that it wasn’t really food that she wanted. It was a welcome. She picked up her bag again and went out. Behind her the ashes slowly dropped and settled in a thin, barely visible layer, over everything. Further on down the boirin, Aine wandered through another hallway and went through another empty house before eventually being greeted on the back doorstep by Popeye, the lurcher, who led her out to the vegetable garden at the side of the house. Thomas was clearing winter weeds from the wet, sour-looking soil.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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