She walked with a new deliberate pace, her hand often drifting to the small of her back. The pregnancy was changing her center of gravity, but it hadn't touched her spirit. She stopped and looked up at the looming silhouette of Toombarloom—the "Twimp"—the ancient hill fort that sat like a crown above the valley.

"I want to climb it," she said, her eyes bright. "This weekend. Before the frost really gets into the ground."

I looked at the steep, bracken-covered incline and then back at her. "You want to haul yourself and the little bird up there?"

"I want to stand at the top," she insisted. "I want to see the Severn from the high ground. I want to show her where she's going to live."

I laughed, pulling her closer into my side. "Okay. But we'll have to invite the Old Man. If his knees are up for it, that is. I'm not sure he's had a mountain ascent since the late eighties."

The climb up Toombarloom was less of a hike and more of a slow, tactical negotiation with the landscape. Peter led the way, or rather, he meandered ahead in a way that suggested he was scouting for hidden traps, his old Barbour jacket smelling of woodsmoke and cedar. He carried the rucksack with the "heavy ordnance"—a thermos of tea that rattled and a stack of sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper that smelled faintly of English mustard and cheddar.

We moved at her pace. Every twenty steps, we stopped, ostensibly to "admire the view," though it was really to let her catch her breath as the little bird inside her made its presence known. The bracken was turning that deep, rusty bronze of late September, and the air grew thinner and sharper as we left the tree line behind.

"You okay there, cariad?" Peter called back, leaning on a gnarled walking stick he'd picked up near the base.

"I'm fine, you old goat," she panted, though she was grinning, her cheeks flushed a bright, healthy pink. "Just making sure the baby gets a good look at the sheep. I want her to know her neighbors."

As if on cue, a stray ewe, its wool matted and grey like a discarded wig, watched us from a rocky outcrop with an expression of profound, ancient judgment. It let out a flat, unimpressed bleat before trotting off into the gorse.

"Even the sheep think you're taking too long," I teased, offering her my hand. She took it, her grip firm and warm, anchoring me to the slope. We were seventeen, and our legs were strong, but the world felt tilted today.

"They're not judging," she whispered, leaning into me. "They're just waiting. Everything in the Valleys is just waiting for something to happen. The stones wait for rain. The trees wait for spring. We're all just... holding our breath until the next season comes."