Owen

THE MORNING DAWNS, HOT AND bright. The day of Francesca's feast. I'm lying in our bedroom drenched in sweat. It's early and yet I can feel the heat ratcheting: the air as heavy as a wool blanket. The weight of my guilt is far worse.

What have I done?

I look over at Fran, lying next to me. Hair strewn across the pillow. She looks like a fucking angel, sleeping the sleep of the innocent, the blessed. There are even a couple of white downy feathers from somewhere caught in the strands of her hair, like the finishing touches to the whole picture.

And here I am: a foul, despicable creature, unfit to lie beside her.

I have no excuse. Whatever she was up to last night, my own actions are unforgivable. I've gone and endangered the best thing that has ever happened to me because I'm so bloody insecure, because I've never felt like her equal. I'm such a cliché.

And Michelle? How could I even go there? She's a viper in our nest.

I need a smoke and a walk to clear my head, to think about my next move.

It's ten past seven, meaning the guys should be arriving with the excavator soon for the next stage in the Treehouse project. Though we won't start the work until the solstice celebrations begin tonight, the plan is to get the excavator positioned in the woods early this morning, to avoid most of the guests having to witness the unsightly spectacle of a construction vehicle crawling up the drive.

I inch from under the sheet; I don't think I can face Francesca yet. But as I slide out of bed she turns toward me and opens her eyes. She stretches luxuriously, then gives me her most radiant smile as she reaches out a hand to cup my jaw. It's everything I can do not to flinch away—I feel so unworthy of her touch.

"Good morning, my beloved," she says, gaze boring deep into mine. "I do hope you slept well?"