Six weeks later, Daniel could button his shirt if he started early enough.
His right hand had become a collection of movements he had to request separately. Some arrived. Some didn't. The scar across his palm was tight and shiny, the little finger stiff. He had been told what they hoped would improve and what they couldn't yet tell him. He disliked both categories.
Lewis came on Tuesdays and Thursdays to help with the work. They had known each other for years through jobs neither could finish alone. Daniel paid him, though Lewis had twice forgotten to bring an invoice and said he might forget again.
That morning they were taking the red-beaked bird back to its owner.
Daniel had completed most of it before Ada disappeared. Lewis had done the fine soldering under his instructions and listened patiently while Daniel told him not to make the beak less angry.
“I'd be angry if I was made of glass,” Lewis said. “One bad football and that's it.”
“You don't understand medieval birds.”
“I don't understand modern ones. A pigeon ate half my sandwich yesterday.”
Daniel smiled, then had to ask Lewis to lift the panel into its carrying frame.
While Lewis went to bring the van closer, Daniel unlocked the cabinet beside his bench. The lock was new, like the locks on the workshop and the side door. Julian had written once through someone else, asking whether Daniel would speak to him. Daniel had said no. He had not read the part of the message which followed the request.
He knew Julian was alive. He knew the investigation was continuing. He had given further accounts and had been asked about his own actions more than once. None of that made a particular morning easier to occupy.
He had sent Ada’s ring back.
It had gone in a little box with her clogs and the things she’d asked Ruth to collect. There had been no note inside. He'd tried writing one and found every first sentence offered another conversation. In the end he'd packed the box, given it to Ruth, and watched her carry it out.
Ada was living with her for now, working on a print job with an impossible deadline Ruth had complained about when she came. She was taking steps to separate from Julian. Ruth had told Daniel that much because he asked, then declined to become their weekly news service.
A letter had arrived three days ago.
Daniel took it from the cabinet. He had read it twice. He didn't need to read it again, but unfolded it.
Ada had written about a night before she moved in. He had come to her workshop late with a pane she hadn't expected until Friday. The alley light was broken. He'd knocked at the wrong door and frightened the bicycle repairer, who'd shouted at him through the wall. When she let him in, he had been so embarrassed he'd kept explaining which door he meant to knock at. She said she had laughed until she had to sit on the floor.
I didn't tell him about that, she wrote. I had my phone in my bag. I didn't take it out. I wanted to be there without telling anyone where I was.
Daniel remembered her laughter. He remembered putting the glass down and sitting on the floor beside her, his knees too high, the press looming over them. He remembered saying he was glad somebody was enjoying it.
He couldn't remember where her phone had been.
The letter didn't ask him to come back. That made it easier to read and harder to put away.
He folded it along the old creases. There was no reply underneath it, no blank sheet waiting for one. He put it in the cabinet and closed the door.
On the windowsill, beside a jar of clean brushes, stood the paper flower.
Ruth had asked whether Ada should have it. Daniel had said no before he'd considered how that sounded. Ruth had looked at it, then at him, and not asked why.
One petal had come loose. He'd tried to put it back two days ago and crushed the edge between fingers which no longer agreed about pressure. Now it lay beside the jar, showing its badly printed blue cloud.
Lewis came in carrying two coffees. He set one on the bench, looked at the flower and said nothing about it.
“We'll have to park round the corner at hers. There's a lorry outside.”
“All right.”
“You coming?”
Daniel looked at his boots. They needed lacing. He had slipped them on loose because Lewis was due and he hadn't wanted to be caught still getting dressed.
“Give me a minute.”
Lewis picked up the carrying frame and took it outside. Daniel put his coffee down and sat on the bottom stair. He made the first knot with his left hand doing most of the work. The second lace kept sliding away from his stiff right fingers.
He tried twice. Then he called Lewis back.
The man crouched in front of him without making a joke. Daniel watched his hands tie the lace, pull it firm, tuck the long ends under.
Outside, someone sounded a horn. Lewis looked up.
“That's probably us.”
Daniel stood. He took his keys from the hook with his left hand and followed him out.