The light had all but gone from behind the mountains looming in the west, and a gibbous moon was making its humpbacked way into the sky. Below the lodge, a rough lawn led down to a narrow cove on a lake that seemed to open out like a sea in the darkness. The Major peered at the soft darker rounds of the trees and bushes crowding the property for a sharper silhouette that might signify a shed. He was about to announce a grid-by-grid search for the promised stone hedgehog when it occurred to him that the broken window might allow entry.

It was cold now and Mrs. Ali stood shivering in her thin wool coat, the tail of her scarf flapping in a sharp wind off the lake. She had her eyes closed and breathed deeply.

“Cold enough for a frost tonight,” he said. He moved toward her, worrying that she was horrified at the state of the place. “Perhaps we ought to go back to the village we passed and see if there’s a bed and breakfast?” She opened her eyes and gave him an anxious smile.

“Oh, no, it’s just so beautiful here,” she said. “And to tell the truth, even at my advanced age and in the middle of such a ridiculous adventure, I don’t think I can quite face checking into a hotel with you.”

“If you put it like that.” His cheeks flushed warm in the darkness. “Though I don’t know if you’ll feel that way if we find squirrels in there,” he said, worried about the broken casement. He tightened his grip on the pencil-thin torch he had extracted from its place in the glove compartment and wondered whether the batteries were fresh or whether they were chalky with dribbled acid. “I suppose we’d better mount an expedition to the interior.”

He could indeed twist the lock from inside the window; he pushed open the door and stepped into the deeper cold of the lodge. The torch gave only a thin bluish beam and he felt his way forward with hands outstretched to ward away the unexpected bang on the knee or knock of head on low beam. The light danced over glimpses of table and chairs, a broken-backed wicker sofa, an iron sink with cotton-curtained cabinets. A large fireplace loomed sooty and dark in one corner, smelling of damp coal. It had been disfigured on one shoulder by the addition of a galvanized container cemented directly into a hole in the chimney so that the heat of the fire could warm water. A couple of pipes with stopcocks led to the unseen bathroom facilities and the welcome possibility of at least a quick sponge bath. An arched opening showed the briefest glimpse of a bedroom. Through another strange arrangement—one patio slider and one French door jumbled together—the lake shone silver and a broad triangle of moonlight fell across the floor and showed large baskets stuffed with fishing gear, dropped as casually as if the owner were going out on the lake again directly. The Major found matches in the obvious place, a tin on the mantelpiece, and, in the low-ceilinged laundry room past the sink area, the promised zinc washtub filled with three paraffin lamps.

“I hope you’re not expecting this place to look any better in the light,” he said as he struck a match and reached for the glass shade of the nearest lamp.

She laughed and said only, “I haven’t smelled a paraffin lamp since I was a small child. My father would tell us how it was discovered by an alchemist in ninth-century Baghdad who was trying to distill gold.”

“I thought it was a Scotsman who invented it,” said the Major, burning his thumb and dropping the match as he fumbled with the second lamp. “But then the most amazing things were being made in the east while we were still getting the hang of wattle-and-daub and trying to find our runaway sheep.” He struck a new match. “Unfortunately, none of it counted in the end unless you got your patents in ahead of the Americans.”

With the lamps offering their wavering yellow light and a coal fire leaping in the brick hearth, the room began to lose some of its damp crypt smell.

“It’s quite charming in here if one squints.” He was opening a bottle of claret that had been meant as a gift to his Scottish host.

“As long as one wipes everything before touching it,” she said, sliding onions into a pan of butter. The rickety stove was powered by a rusty bottled-gas tank just outside the kitchen window. “The dust seems to be years thick.”

“My former C.O., Colonel Preston, has been frail for a couple of years now,” said the Major, looking at the assembled fly rods on the wall. “I doubt he’ll ever visit here again.” He walked to the hearth and tested the water heater with the back of his hand. Then he stood with his back to the blaze and sipped wine from a tea mug and looked at how her hands chopped tomato with a smooth twist and fall of the knife and how she cocked her head in concentration.

“Pity, really; he talks about this place as you or I might talk of—Well, of wherever was the most important place in the world to us.” He felt a sadness for the Colonel but it could not hold his attention, because her hair was escaping from its pins and now she stopped to push some strand off her forehead with the flat of her arm. The chicken and spices hissed into the pan and as she covered it with a baking sheet, he could not remember any other place to which he had any attachment at all. The world seemed to have shrunk to fit quite perfectly inside the room.

“And do you have such a place?” she asked, lowering the flame under the pan and straightening up with a smile. “I know I do not seem to belong anywhere.”

“I always supposed it to be Edgecombe St. Mary,” he said. “My wife is buried in the churchyard, you know, and I have a second plot there.”

“That’s one way to feel rooted to a place,” she said. Then she made a horrified O with her lips while he laughed. “No, that came out all wrong,” she said.

“Not at all,” he said. “That is exactly what I meant. I always thought it important to decide where one would be buried, and then one could sort of work life out backward from there.”

They ate, mopping up the sauce with sweet almond rolls and drinking the wine. She accepted a cup for the purpose of warding off the dampness and drank it cut with water, like a Frenchwoman. “So, if you want to be buried in Sussex, you probably wouldn’t move to—say—Japan?” she said.

“I refuse to answer, on the grounds that I may now prefer to just stay here with you and thereby deprive both Edgecombe and Tokyo of my presence,” he said.

“But we will not stay here, Major.” Her voice was sad. “Just like the Colonel, we will have to leave and never see it again.”

“True.” He looked around at the fire’s dancing shadows on the thick stone walls and the pools of light on the low ceiling from the lamps and the single candle guttering in a broken saucer. They had laid the bedroom’s duvet over the back of the sofa to air, and its red flannel added to the warmth in the room. “You must give me time to think,” he said.

“My husband’s body was sent back to Pakistan for burial, something I do not wish for myself, and so I cannot rest next to him. Nor can I be buried in a pretty Sussex churchyard,” she said.