"Published poet," Peter remarked, wiping his bowl with a crust of bread. "I understood about four words of that, but they were very nice words. Especially the bit about the bus smelling of 'abandoned intentions.'"

"I was talking about you, Peter," she teased, tossing a balled-up piece of paper at him.

"I'm not abandoned," he grinned, catching it. "I'm just... parked indefinitely."

The laughter subsided into the comfortable crackle of the logs. Peter leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the window.

"I was thinking," he said, his tone shifting into something more thoughtful. "Since you're sticking around, and the little bird is on her way, you ought to start meeting the locals. Not just the ones behind the chip counter."

I looked up. "I thought we were the only ones you liked, Peter."

"Don't get ahead of yourself. I tolerate you because you pay for the tea," he shot back, but his eyes were soft. "No, I'm talking about Steph. She's just got back from Spain—visiting her mother for a few weeks."

He spoke the name with a particular kind of gravity. We had heard it mentioned in passing, a name floating in the background of Peter's stories about Crosskeys, but we'd never met her.

"Steph and I... we go back a long way," Peter continued. "Ten years, give or take. We were the kids who didn't quite fit the mold here. She stayed, I left, I came back. We've seen each other through some fairly messy weather."

"She's about ten years older than you lot," Peter said, poking at the fire with the iron. "And she's got a little one now. Eira. She's two."

"Eira's been with Steph since she was a few months old. It's a long story—social services, a mother who couldn't quite find her feet—but Steph? She just opened her door and didn't look back. It's not easy, especially on your own in the valley, but Steph isn't exactly built for 'easy'."

"When can we meet her?" Mama asked, her hand resting instinctively on her stomach.

"Saturday," Peter decided. "We'll go into Newport. Steph likes the market. We'll find a corner, have some tea. Meet the little devil."

The cafe in Newport was a huddle of mismatched chairs and the heavy, sweet scent of cinnamon and steamed milk. The autumn sun was streaming through the front window, catching the dust motes in a way that made the whole place feel like an old photograph.

Peter was already there, leaning back in his chair with a grin that was far too wide for someone who had been driving half the night. Sitting across from him was a woman with wild, curly hair and eyes that looked like they'd seen everything and found most of it funny. Steph.

And then there was Eira.