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She left the group and hurried through the hotel doors into the bright autumn sunshine.

She crossed Fifth Avenue, which was busy with traffic.

How different it was to a century ago. In those days there’d been horses and carts, carriages, trams and the first motor cars.

There’d been no clutter on the roads. Now she noticed the lines painted on the tarmac, the traffic lights, the bollards, the large number of things that hadn’t been there in those days.

And the sounds of the city – how different they were too.

It was extraordinary to think that she had been here, in this very spot, only hours ago, yet a hundred years before.

Everyone she had seen was dead. Their lives had been lived and completed, and they had departed.

Among them was Cavill. He had departed too.

This was the second time she had had to suffer his death, and it wasn’t any easier to bear.

She walked through the park in search of the steps where they had arranged to meet.

She knew there was no point in going there – she wasn’t going to find him, but she couldn’t stop herself.

She was drawn by a powerful longing that was stronger than she was.

Not knowing her way around, she asked a man at a food cart and he told her it was called Bethesda Terrace, and pointed her in the right direction.

When she had taken the carriage ride with Cavill, it had been April.

The trees had been in flower and the green leaves were just beginning to unfurl.

The air had been sugar-scented and invigorated by the aliveness and optimism of spring.

Now there was a different smell in the air, the smell of summer dying into autumn, and the leaves were about to turn and fall.

It was the end of a cycle. But a new one would begin.

That was the same with life. Cycles of death and rebirth, repeated time and again.

It was a balmy afternoon. The sun was warm, the sky above Manhattan a resplendent blue.

It felt good to be outside. A soft breeze brushed her face and played with her hair.

She was happy to be Pixie Tate once more.

To have shed Constance Fleet, although the memory of her was still acute.

She walked fast in her jeans and trainers, no longer constricted by a corset and a long and cumbersome skirt, and she looked around her with fresh eyes seeing everything anew; coming as she did from the past, the present looked strangely unfamiliar.

At last, she reached the two sets of giant sandstone steps that descended at each end of a terrace to a large, round pond below.

In the middle of the pond rose a magnificent stone fountain on top of which stood a bronze angel with her wings outspread.

Pixie lingered on the terrace and rested her hands on the balustrade.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment.

Had Cavill waited for her here ? What had he thought when she hadn’t come?

What had he wanted to say to her? He would have heard soon after that Constance had died.

How had he felt about that? It was too presumptuous to hope that he had felt tenderness for her , Pixie, but she found herself wondering whether he had perhaps recognised something in Constance that he had found in Hermione, something that was behind the physical appearance of both women.

A deep connection that was recognisable but beyond definition.

He would not have known what it was, but he might have felt it.

Pixie opened her eyes and let them wander over the fountain and the lake beyond.

People were rowing in small boats alongside ducks that glided gracefully over the water.

The light caught the ripples in their wake and sparkled.

The breeze caused the leaves to oscillate mesmerically so that from where she was standing, they looked like thousands of tiny fairy lights.

It was a peaceful scene and it soothed the ache in her heart.

She knew she was foolish to pine for a man who had been dead for over seventy years, but her heart had no conception of time, nor did it care about being foolish.

In the dazzling sunlight she saw the tall figure of a man standing with his back to her, contemplating the round pond.

Her heart lurched. It couldn’t be. Cavill was dead.

She was in 2014 Or was she? Her eyes darted to the left and right, taking in the people in modern clothes who were most definitely not from the past. But the man by the pond was so familiar.

He was standing in the same way that Cavill stood, with the same broad shoulders and confident stance.

Yet, this slide, Cavill had been an older man.

This man was like a young Cavill. He was wearing a well-cut suit that showed off his slim figure and long legs.

He had Cavill’s height and his distinctive deportment.

She stared, terrified to blink in case the vision melted away.

In case it was a trick of her imagination, like an echo from the past that would evaporate if she lost her focus.

Aware perhaps that he was being watched, he turned around.

The disappointment hit her like cold water on her face.

He was not Cavill, young or old. He was simply a stranger in the park.

But she continued to watch him all the same.

Shielding his eyes from the sun, he cast his gaze up to where she was standing on the terrace.

He seemed to be looking directly at her.

She couldn’t see the colour of his eyes from where she was, but she knew they were blue.

For a long moment it appeared as if they were staring at each other.

Then he looked at his watch. He sighed with resignation, glanced once more at the terrace, then put his hands in his pockets and walked away.

Pixie watched him saunter off to the right and take the path into the trees.

She watched him until he was out of sight, and she continued to watch even though the path was empty.

With a heavy heart, she found a tree that was some distance away from the paths and people, and sat cross-legged beneath it.

Dappled sunlight shimmered on the long grass around her, and above, the leaves gently rustled. She rested her head against the trunk and closed her eyes.

I will find a way …