I lay in the white bed and looked at the ceiling and listened to the sea.

I could hear it through the open window — not crashing, just moving, a constant low breath of water shifting against rock. The air coming through was warm and carried that salt smell that I was already starting to associate with this whole improbable evening. Somewhere below me I could hear Marco moving around, the faint sounds of the bar being cleaned up for the night, chairs being set up on tables, a tap running, a door closing.

I should have been asleep. I was exhausted — four days of travel and trains and...