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416 pages, Hardcover
Expected publication May 5, 2026
“All I want from this world is someone to love, and here you are.”

When he was underfoot, John would give him spools of colour and send him outside to find the article that had inspired them with strict instruction not to come home again until he had matched the colours perfectly. Cal liked the searching, the wandering with watchful purpose, the reward. He would return, holding the hem of his jumper, and his father would take the bladder wrack, the scab of lichen, or the guillemot feather and hold it next to the yarn. Cal’s matching became near exact. “But you’ve no match for the teal,” his father had said. “The teal is the sea. But when I filled my hand with seawater it was a watery nothing.” He picked at the tiny green flecks amongst the teal. “So I have matched it, but we need to go look at it together, where the water meets the kelp, and floats over the sand underneath.” John would bury his nose in Cal’s crown and inhale the fresh air. It was on days like this that Cal came to love colour.
we’ve read some Hogg, some James, and Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, which offended everybody. It’s set on Skye and there’s hardly a Scotsman in it. It’s a particularly English talent, that. The ability to visit foreign places and yet always think of yourself as the most interesting thing there.
He thought about himself as a young man, when he was fifteen and first falling in love. It had seemed possible to love both God and Innes and to live a quiet, half-life. He had no way of knowing how much lying it would take or how those lies would take root, how they needed constant tending, how they would grow thorny and wrap around all those who cared for him until they were all part of the tangle. It seemed a cruel joke, that even as he salted the earth around him, his lies were the most abundant fruit these rocks could ever produce.