He stood up, slow and steady, and held out his hand. "Come on. The cawl's been on since four and if I leave it any longer it'll turn into cement. And I need to ring your boy before he does something dramatic."

She took his hand. Her grip was weak and cold, nothing like the fierce girl who'd climbed the Twimp. But she stood. She walked. She got into Vera's passenger seat and let Peter tuck the seatbelt around the bump, his movements gentle and practiced, like he was handling something precious that had been left out in the rain.

They drove back through Abercarn in silence, the headlights cutting pale tunnels through the fog. As they passed through Crosskeys, the cottage lights appeared on the hill—a small, warm constellation in the dark valley. She stared at them, and Peter saw her hand drift to her stomach, her fingers pressing gently against the fabric of her coat.

"She's moving," she said quietly. "The little bird. She's been moving the whole time. Even when I wasn't... there."

"Course she was," Peter said, pulling up to the gate. "She's Valley-born already. Tough as the stone. She doesn't need you to be perfect, love. She just needs you to come home."

That night, the cottage was quiet in the way it always was after an episode—not the comfortable silence of the hearth, but the held-breath silence of a house that knows something has shifted. Peter had cleaned her knuckles with warm water and the witch hazel, wrapped her hands in a soft cloth, and set her up on the sofa with the wool blanket and a mug of tea that was more honey than anything else. She was half-asleep when he picked up the phone.

The international dial tone—that strange, hollow double-ring that meant the call was crossing water—pulsed three times before I answered.

"Peter?" My voice was tight. He could hear it immediately, the way the vowels had gone flat with worry. "Is she okay? What happened?"

"She's home," Peter said. He kept his voice low, the phone cord stretched to its limit as he stood in the hallway, just out of earshot of the living room. "She had a bad day. Lost some time. I found her up in Newbridge—she'd walked a fair way. She's shaken, but she's here. She's safe."

The silence on my end lasted three seconds. Three seconds in which the distance between Östersund and the Ebbu Valley felt like the distance between the earth and the moon.

"How bad?" I asked.

"Bad enough that I'm ringing you at"—Peter checked the kitchen clock—"nine at night on a Wednesday, which should tell you everything. But she's in one piece. The baby's fine. She just... she needs to hear your voice tonight, kid. Can you do that?"

"Put her on."