I hear footsteps far away, someone crossing the square, and because it might be Greg, I don’t move. I barely open my eyes and watch the fog, waiting. There’s a lamp down the street from the inn, a tiny circle of light in the darkness, and it flickers, threatening to go out, then flares back to life again brighter than ever. The fog darkens, grows thick, condenses into a silhouette, and then David appears, passing through the street lamp.
My God, I think as I watch him walk, his head down, leaves skittering across the cobblestones to get out of his path. He’s gorgeous, an angel in the night, and almost ephemeral in the glow of the lamp. When the flame gutters, he seems to waver, or maybe it’s the fog. I don’t know, but he seems insubstantial, temporal, in danger of winking out like the lig
