He went home on Monday.
Not because he needed to, not for any practical reason, but because he had been at the Vale house for most of two weeks and his mother's house was also his house and something in him wanted to stand in his own room for a while.
He walked. The morning was cool and bright. His mother was home, in the kitchen doing something with flour and a recipe she appeared to be improvising around, which was her approach to most things.
"You're back," she said, without turning. She always knew when he came in.
"I'm back."
"Hungry?"
"Not particularly."
"Sit down anyway."
She put coffee in front of him. He sat at the table and watched her work. The same kitchen. The chipped tile above the stove. The window that stuck in damp weather. The particular smell of it.
"Roman's nice," she said.
"He is."
"He ate three portions of pasta."
"He's a large person."
