Jack buried the tiny body in a shallow grave in Preacher Woods. He chose the spot with considerable care; under one of the stones that comprised Seven Sisters Circle, the one that overlooked the lake at the bottom of the hill. It was too far from the path to be disturbed, yet close enough that he would be able to come here often and relive the memories.

He said prayers. One he'd learned by rote when he was a child and a second from the heart. Sarah would have approved. 'It doesn't matter what you say,'� she used to tell him. 'All that matters is that you say it from the heart and mean it.'�

It made sense. What were formal prayers but something to prop up the imagination, designed to save the less articulate from thinking. It was an undesirable quality in the lower classes, the ability to think.

Jack patted the earth down and put a stone over it. 'You'll like it here,'� he said. 'Your mum did. It looks bleak now but come spring all this will be a mass of bluebells and wild garlic.

He took a last look across the lake and walked off without a backward glance. Sarah would have approved. The miscarriage had taken them both by surprise, and when he'd returned home the next morning, numb from her sudden death, he'd found the tiny baby on the floor in the bathroom.

Sarah would have approved of their son's burial, he was sure.

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