Where he lay in the little cellar store-room, Timothy listened to the stillness of the night around him.

There were little noises. The slight crackle of the hay-stuffed mattress under him as he shifted an arm or leg. The sound of his quiet breathing. The scrabble of mice over by the wall.

Timothy listened. He lay on his back on the strange bed, its worn blanket flung loosely over him. The night was hot and he was clad in nothing but his thin undershirt. He lifted a hand and restlessly fingered at the lacing at the neck of his shirt, pulling it further open.

He could not sleep. His eyes were open and had no urge to shutter as yet. This was his first night in strange surroundings. He wanted to listen to all that was around him, to grow used to these unfamiliar surroundings. To listen for any signs of potential danger before giving himself up to sleep.

Is it dark? Timothy asked himself, curious.

He presumed it was. He had heard very faintly the bellman out in the street call out the hour of eleven a long time ago. He had learned as a child that light in the summer disappeared at nine or ten of the clock.

Timothy thought now that if he could see darkness then he would like it because it accompanied this peacefulness at night. Sighted people however never seemed to like darkness, which sometimes made him wonder that if he was sighted too, would he automatically not like it either?

_"What is darkness like?"_

Timothy remembered asking Tuck that at five years old. They had been sitting on a bench in the cloister garden at Thornton on a hot August evening and he had turned his face up to the warmth of the sun, liking the way it had softly pressed against his forehead and cheeks. Tuck had told him that the light from the sun was very bright that evening but soon darkness would fall.

Tuck had been reading to him, but his voice had trailed off as Timothy had asked the question. Timothy had listened, bewildered. There had come the rustle of a vellum page being turned from beside him, and then a pause which Timothy had been further bewildered about, and then Tuck's fingers had gently stroked his cheek in feeling. Timothy had smiled in response and had turned his cheek further into Tuck's gentle hand, liking the unexpected attention.

_"Ah, darkness. Well, it's like very deep, very soft velvet,"_ Tuck had tried to explain.

Timothy could remember being further puzzled. _"But I don't feel any velvet under my hands when it is night and you say it is dark. Is the velvet out of my reach?"_

_"You can't actually touch darkness with your hands. It feels like velvet to the eyes of a sighted person,"_ Tuck had explained.

Timothy had tried to work that one out. _"Do your eyes feel velvet?"_ He had imagined then to himself sighted people's eyes somehow extending out of their heads like snails eyes he had felt and he had wondered if that was how sighted people saw. Their eyes somehow extended outwards to press against objects around them and feel them and that was how sighted people saw.

He had entertained that delightful concept of seeing for several years during childhood. It had given him many a moment of amusement in times of boredom when as a restless six year old he had sat in the chapter house with the monks at their meetings, listening to Father Lawrence's voice droning on. He had imagined feeling what Father Lawrence's face was like when Father Lawrence's eyes were extending like a snail's and pressing against the other monks in order to see them. He remembered giggling to himself and swinging his head to himself in delight at what his imagination conjured up - only to feel the hand of Brother Matthew clamp around his chin, still his head with a slight jerk, and turn his face back to the direction of Father Lawrence's voice with a whispered warning of _"Be still, child!"_

Tuck had chuckled at Timothy's curious question in the cloister garden. His hand had moved from Timothy's cheek to smooth his hair back from where it had stuck to his hot forehead. _"It is akin to our sighted eyes experiencing velvet. Imagine putting your face against a soft deep cloth of velvet. That is what darkness is like."_

Timothy had listened, interested. _"Darkness sounds nice."_

Tuck had not answered, but his fingers had gently stroked Timothy's cheek again in feeling, and Timothy had been puzzled by the gesture at the time, for Tuck had seemed a little wistful at Timothy's statement. But as Timothy had grown, he had understood that sighted people equated blindness with darkness.

Timothy turned his head to listen to the scrabbling of a mouse across the stone floor of the little storeroom. The scrabbling ran under his bed and out the other side away through where the archway was. He sighed to himself and drawing one knee up where he lay on his back, he put his hands behind the back of his neck and fell to thought.

Why was he thinking so much about his childhood at Thornton? Thinking so much about Tuck? His mind kept revisiting his childhood and he kept remembering the presences around him, the voices of quiet instruction; the familiar hands that had used to touch his face in affection and guide his inquisitive hands in teaching. Sounds, scents, shapes and textures - the FEEL of Thornton itself - kept coming back to mind.

_I've returned,_ thought Timothy. _Returned to Nottingham and its surrounds. That is why._

It was only to be expected, he supposed. Upon entering Nottingham, the town had assailed his senses in a vivid rush and he had found that in Nottingham, a lot of the old sounds, scents, the way things felt, had remained, hadn't changed at all - and they had crashed into his being and flooded his senses with memory.

Just walking through the market this morning had taken him back to being a ten year old full of awe and excitement at his first visit to Nottingham, holding Tuck's arm for guidance as Tuck had steered him across that same bustling marketplace. He remembered now with clarity being that ten year old, the heat of the sun full in his face, the smell of baking bread, spices, hot people and refuse in the gutters all hitting his nose in an intense mix, the chatter and shouts of people around him selling their wares. And all the while, as he had been guided through this maze of movement and sound, sweeping his stick from side to side before him over the cobbles, excited and curious and eager to learn about all that was around him, he remembered his other hand resting on Tuck's arm, the feel of the material of Tuck's sleeve comfortingly under his fingers.

Upon returning to Nottingham yesterday, Timothy had not expected such a strong assault on his memory, his feelings. But so much memory was coming back, both good and bad, with attendant feelings, and Tuck was in a great deal of those memories.

He remembered his words to Celeste when she had asked him if Tuck had known he was back in Nottingham after eleven years. _"No. No, he doesn't. I think he thinks me dead...."_

And Henri's words of this morning echoed in his mind: _"Tuck came to Nottingham looking for you after you ran away.....you caused Tuck a lot of heartache, I can tell you that for nothing..."_

Timothy's conscience pricked at him. Being raised in an Abbey had its drawbacks. He sighed and rubbed his hand across his face.

_I didn't come back to see Tuck._

He guiltily admitted that to himself now. No matter how much he loved the man - the nearest to a father and an older brother  he had ever had or was likely ever to have - he hadn't returned to England for Tuck. Indeed, whilst walking the seeming never-ending rough roads and trackways north from Southampton, he'd wondered briefly if Tuck was still alive and then had tried to push Tuck to the back of his mind in favour of thinking about what he HAD returned to England for.

Some of the monks at Thornton who had resided there during his childhood surely would not be alive by now, thought Timothy. Eleven years had passed. If he were to visit Thornton whilst in England....how many of those men who had looked to him as a child would still be alive? Timothy wondered. He remembered gentle Brother Francis, who had had no teeth. He had used to wickedly imitate to the Felden children what Brother Francis sounded like when chewing on a piece of bread with his gums.

_Brother Francis was ninety two when I ran away from Thornton._ Timothy thought. _He is surely dead now._

Brother Augustine, Brother Milo, Brother Aubrey. They had been in their seventies and eighties when he had run away from Thornton - they surely would all be dead by now, and had died without knowing he was safe. He had not said goodbye to them. He had not said goodbye to anyone at Thornton, not even Tuck.

Timothy found a tear trickling out the outer corner of his right eye and sliding away across his cheek; he scrubbed it away, then sighed to himself and lay with his forearm over his eyes for a moment whilst he recovered his emotions.

He owed those gentle men at Thornton Abbey everything. His survival as a blind infant abandoned at the Abbey gates, his welfare and his education. No-one else would have looked to a blind child or given him an education. He knew he had been fortunate. He was the man he was today in many ways because of his upbringing at Thornton. And whilst he had run away from Thornton because he had not wanted to become a monk and had sensed the machinations behind the scenes to make him into one - he still respected those men who had given themselves to God.

Timothy sat up, and with his arms braced behind him, he listened intently to the silence around him. It was suddenly frightening. He felt disembodied from the world, trying to sleep in this cellar. He hated the feeling; in Lisbon in his chamber there had not been this stillness, this feeling of not existing. The soft breezes had swept in from the balcony and caressed his skin, outlining his body to himself. Beatriz had often lain asleep beside him, softly breathing, and he had lain there, listening, tracing the outline of her body with his fingertips, and all the while the scent of the jasmine growing on his balcony had drifted in from its direction and woven itself around them.

Timothy reached down beside the bed and felt for the small pack he had carried with him from Lisbon. Taking it up, he set it before him on the bed. The buckles jingled lightly as he undid the flap. He felt down into the pack, past the folds of spare clothing and the shapes of his wooden measuring spoons; past his small bundle of reference letters which crackled where they lay wrapped in their linen cloth. At the bottom of his pack, his fingers found what they sought, and he drew out a finely-woven square of linen that was folded inwards on itself.

Timothy laid the square of linen on the upturned palm of his left hand and carefully unfolded it with his right one. He put his fingers to the centre of the unlapped linen and found the long sleek skein of hair, tied at one end by a long thin length of satin ribbon.

Slowly, Timothy's fingertips travelled down the silken skein of hair lain upon the linen. He bent his head, touched his nose and then his lips delicately to the skein, then picked it up, and uncoiled it to its full length. He held it entwined around the fingers of his right hand in front of his face, and then he touched his lips softly to it again. The scent of rose and of lemon-balm still lingered vaguely about the length of hair, and his memory shot vividly back to the evening before he had sailed for England. His last night at the Princess Mafalda's palace in Lisbon.

That evening in March, he had walked up the winding stone steps to his chamber, hot and weary, the thought of the morning departure setting heavy on his heart. He had opened the door to his chamber - and the scent of flowers had immediately hit his nose - far stronger than the usual scent that drifted in through his balcony at this time of the evening.

Then he had detected slight movement within his chamber in the direction of his bed and had immediately jerked his head round to scan over that direction with his hearing.

_"Beatriz?"_ he had queried.

Her voice had giggled from the direction of his bed. _"Here."_

Timothy had taken a step inside the room, halted, then still puzzled, had reached out a hand and curiously swept it before him in tentative exploration, not sure where the scent was coming from - it seemed to be everywhere. It had been so strong, he had believed there were pots of flowers right in front of him and that had been why his hand had swept the air before him; he had not wanted to walk into anything.

But his hand had met on nothing but space. And Beatriz had known him for three years and knew well enough by now not to move anything within his chamber.

Timothy had taken another step forwards into the chamber, then had halted once more, still unsure. _"The scent of flowers is very strong. What are you doing?"_

Beatriz's voice had been both enigmatic and inviting. _"Come and find out."_

Timothy had laughed and, propping his guiding stick in the corner by the door, had walked across to the bed, turning his head to scan over her tantalising presence.

_"Have you been laying in wait for me?"_ he had laughed afresh, reaching the end of his bed and reaching out his hands to find her.

Her hands had reached out and touched him as his hands had found the end of the bed, and he had found the scent stronger here. As he had slid his hands over the covers in exploration he had found she had covered the bed in rose petals, and sprigs of lemon balm and jasmine. He had felt over the bed in pleasured wonder, aware he smiled at the sensation of his hands sinking down into a layer of satin soft rose petals.

Beatriz had laughed. _"I can see by your face what you find pleases you."_ Her fingers had stroked up his bare forearm in a slow trail of pleasure. _"I wanted to make things beautiful for you, in the ways that you understand beauty. So you don't forget."_

Timothy had touched her face with both hands, finding it upturned to him and had laughed as his fingertips had travelled over her open blinking eyes and beaming mouth - her face alive with movement. She had laughed, full of joyous anticipation, and her hands had slid up his bare forearms in loving caress. Timothy's hands had found her bare shoulders and had slid over her body in exploration and he had found with delight that she was naked. Her long hair had flowed down her back in loose waves to her hips, and had been tied in sections at her scalp by thin satin ribbons whose lengths also cascaded downwards, mixed with the waves of her hair. Timothy had run his fingers down the lengths of ribbons, enraptured; little straight satin rivers amongst the soft loose waterfall of hair.

_"You haven't ruined my flowers on my balcony, have you?"_ he had asked, laughing, not really caring if she had, for tomorrow this chamber with its balcony and flowers would not be his.

_"No, I ruined them on someone elses,"_ Beatrice had giggled.

Timothy had quickly rid himself of his clothing, cast it aside with gay
abandon at the foot of the bed and giggling, had scrambled up the bed to receive her clasping embrace. He had pulled her gently down against him on the bed and there they had kissed and caressed, and entangling their limbs in a glorious eager jumble amongst the rose petals, had made love.

Later, much later, when the evening was still and silent and Beatriz had told him it was dark, they had just sat on the bed facing each other, naked, their legs entangled in the thin sheet which had wound itself around them, and they had been silent and awed at the prospect of bidding farewell on the morrow, just gently, softly running their fingertips over each other without a word.

Timothy had wanted to imprint all her shapes and textures upon his fingertips to remember. He had run his fingers along the clean slender lines of her throat, her collarbones, her small, finely moulded breasts. Her narrow waist and wide hips, the long slim lines of her legs, her shapely calves and her finely chiseled ankles and feet. Her fingers had run through his hair in response, he had sighed and bent his head, shivering with pleasure as her fingers had stroked the back of his neck and then traced lingering patterns on the skin of his back.

She had taken his hand and touched his fingers to one of the sections of her long hair tied by a ribbon. _"Take it. Cut a length and take it with you."_

Timothy had hesitated, reluctant. _"I couldn't. Your beautiful hair..."_ he had run the fingers of his left hand down through the cascade.

Beatriz had taken his right hand and then he had felt the shape of a small knife handle pressed against his palm. _"I want you to. Take something of me with you."_

He had taken the knife and cut the section of hair away, still with the ribbon tied around it. Then she had taken the knife from him and had said softly: _"My turn,"_ and he had bowed his head and she had clipped a short wavy lock of hair from the nape of his neck.

_"Something to remind you of me,"_ he had said quietly, awed by the sudden solemnity which had stolen over them, and glad there were no tears, no female histrionics.

Beatriz had put her hand under his chin to lift it so their faces were on a level once more, and she had softly kissed first his lips, and then his eyes. _"Not that I'll forget you. You are like no other."_

They had delivered delicate kisses to each others lips and face in further silent, solemn moments, then finally she had lain down and slept and Timothy had sat beside her, listening to her quiet breathing and still running fingertips softly over her; over the peaceful face turned against the pillow, her hair straggled untidily across her shoulders, the delicate arms lain across the rumpled sheet and drifts of rose petals.

Eventually, he had lain himself down beside her and drawing her into his arms, had laid his cheek against her hair, and holding her, had remained wide-eyed and awake, his head ablaze with thoughts in the stillness of the night. Waiting for the moment that she woke up in his arms.

Another scrabbling of a mouse running along by the cellar wall brought Timothy out of his memories. He sighed, closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek lightly against the soft fall of hair he still held in his hand entwined around his fingers, as though she were still there under his hands. The length of hair and scent of the rose and lemon balm and jasmine which clung to it still, even after three months, almost made him believe that she was here, in his arms; he could almost feel the trace of her lips across his face and down his throat.

Timothy was silent for long moments. Then he laid the skein of hair spread across his pillow, and laying down on his side, laid his cheek against the hair, and gave himself up to memories and longing.

Finally he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, whilst echoing in his ears came the faint call of the bellman walking the Nottingham streets outside:

"Twelve o clock, look well to your locks,
Your fire and your light and so goodnight."