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She was, to all intents and purposes, the perfect employee. Hajar had emailed her that morning, asking her to work overtime - two days' worth of overtime in one day, in fact - and she had replied with an enthusiastic 'yes'. She had demanded no recompense; partly, thought Hajar, because she knew one would come; but also partly because none was needed. She wasn't that kind of girl. Then, about halfway through the afternoon, tagged on the end of an email about the work she was doing, Hajar found a discreet note explaining that she might have to take another day off, and apologising. This was out of character: Hajar read on. Two of her friends had died within a week of each other, it explained. Separate incidents; very strange. She may or may not go to the second funeral; if she did, she hoped it would be alright to take the day off and apologised again for the inconvenience. Hajar marvelled at her most senior employee's tone. No fuss was made; this was not her style; but equally, she was so strong it seemed almost inhuman. Hajar thought back to the day before, when she had arrived at the office, joking with Les about her morning run, chatting with Skye and Callie about Jeremy Clarkson, laughing at Tom's jibe when she said she would be away on Thursday. No one but Hajar knew she would be at a funeral. The girl was impossibly strong, thought Hajar again. Impossibly so. Sighing, she sent a sympathetic but non-fussy email in reply, wondering what her favoured employee was doing right now. 

She was, in fact, walking to the nearest village to pick up the shopping. Bralingyr was located quite literally in the middle of nowhere - which was why she and Lothario had chosen it as their home - and travelling to the shop usually meant taking one of the hourly buses that rumbled past on the quiet country road. Not today, though. Today she had decided to walk. It was only four miles, after all; and already she had seen the most beautiful deer, so large it was almost the size of a horse, watching her through the trees. On she had hurried, past the self-proclaimed 'character offices' holding a marketing firm and a lawyer's bolthole, past the farm gates, down the long lane. She crossed the road at Stone Hall and walked past the Star garage, debating the wisdom of stepping inside for a coffee. She decided against, did the shopping and hopped on a bus home. 

Arriving back, she realised why people had been smiling at her all day. It was out of character for a small village in Yakmount, where mostly the people looked like miniature rainclouds on legs, grey and grunting, seemingly unable to make humane conversation. She sighed as she noticed her spotted pyjama bottoms still adorning her legs; her dress, hanging half off of her fairy-like frame, looked like a skirt with a couple of tassels. She had no bra on; at this revelation, she baulked, having grown up amongst the Roma, an intensely modest people. She did, at least, have three layers on, as well as her purple jumper. Her hair was quite obviously the product of a manic home-chopping episode, though few would ever realise quite how manic such times were. Lothario would laugh, she thought, putting the milk in the airing cupboard before remembering the fridge. 

Yawning deeply, she plopped down in the largest wicker chair and picked up the phone to call Lea. Another day, another lapse of brain, she thought to herself, and dialled the number she felt terribly guilty for not knowing by heart.