Gosie slipped away and headed north to Scotland this afternoon.
Not Cumbria. Too obvious. Too many people who notice things.
Northumberland, though—that has the right sort of quiet.
She’s taken a small stone cottage just off a back road somewhere between Alnwick and Rothbury. The sort of place that doesn’t advertise, doesn’t ask questions, and has a key left exactly where it was agreed it would be. There’s a low fire going, a kettle that behaves itself, and a table just large enough for a sketchbook, a map, and one neatly wrapped parcel.
She’s not alone, but equally she’s not exactly with someone. A second cup has been used. A second chair has been pulled out, then pushed back in again. That tells its own story.
If there is a gerbil counterpart—friend, co-conspirator, something more—they operate on the same principles: arrive separately, leave separately, overlap just enough to get things done. No names, no fuss, no trace beyond a slightly better-organised room and the faint sense that something precise has been completed.
By morning, she’ll be gone. The cottage will look untouched. And the road north will be just a little more travelled than it was the night before.