As the sun peeks over the horizon, she stifles her sobs and through her tears she examines the gun. It’s similar to one of her father’s.

There is something she can do; she’s seen her father do it often enough. She unclips the magazine and is surprised to find only four bullets in it. She removes them and then sharply pulls the slide back and catches the remaining round as it’s ejected from the chamber. She reloads the magazine into the gun and pockets the bullets. Then she places the pistol back in Anatoli’s case and zips it up.

Standing, she wipes away her tears. Enough with the crying, she scolds herself. She glances toward the window as the skyline of Zagreb materializes in the early-morning light. From the fifteenth floor of the Westin hotel, the city is spread out beneath like a terra-cotta patchwork quilt. It’s an arresting vista, and in a distracted moment she wonders if Tiran? is similar.

“You’re awake.” Anatoli’s voice startles her.

“I was hungry.” She glances at the table of leftover food. “Now I’m going to have a shower.”

Grabbing her bag, she scuttles into the bathroom and locks the door.

* * *

When she emerges, Anatoli is up and dressed. Their crockery and the leftover food have been cleared away, and there’s fresh linen on the table, with a continental breakfast laid out for them.

“You stayed,” Anatoli says quietly. He seems subdued, though he’s as watchful as ever.

“Where would I go?” Alessia replies wearily.

He shrugs. “You left once before.”

Alessia stares at him. Mute. Despondent. Exhausted.

“Is it because you care for me?” he whispers.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she says, and, sitting down, picks out a pain au chocolat from the bread basket.

He takes his seat opposite her, and she can tell he’s hiding a slight and hopeful smile.

* * *

Tom and I wander across the vast Skanderbeg Square, which is close to the hotel. It’s a clear, chill morning, with the sun reflecting off the multicolored marble tiles that pave the gargantuan space. It’s dominated on one side by a bronze statue of Albania’s fifteenth-century hero on horseback, and on the other by the National History Museum. Although I’m anxious to get to Alessia’s town and find her home, we have to wait to meet our interpreter.

I’m unsettled and jittery and unable to keep still, so to kill time Tom and I take a quick walk through the museum. I distract myself by snapping numerous photographs and posting the odd one online. I get told off twice, but I ignore the officials and continue to take photographs surreptitiously. It’s hardly the British Museum, but I’m fascinated by the Illyrian artifacts. Tom, of course, is preoccupied with the displays of medieval weaponry; Albania has a rich and bloody history.

At ten we stroll down one of the tree-lined boulevards toward the coffeehouse where we’ve arranged to meet our translator. I am struck by how many men are sitting around drinking coffee outside, even though it’s cold.

Where are the women?

* * *

Thanas Ceka is dark-haired and dark-eyed, a postgrad student at the University of Tirana doing his doctorate in English literature. His English is excellent, he has a ready smile and an easygoing nature—and he’s brought his girlfriend. Her name is Drita, and she’s an undergrad studying history. She’s petite and pretty, and her spoken English is not as good as Thanas’s. She wants to come with us.

Well, this could get complicated.

Tom glances at me and shrugs. I haven’t got time to argue. “I’m not sure how long we’re going to be,” I state as I finish my coffee. It could double as paint stripper—I don’t think I’ve ever drunk coffee this strong.

“It’s cool. I’ve cleared my schedule for the week,” Thanas responds. “I’ve never been to Kuk?s myself, but Drita has.”

“What do you know of Kuk?s?” I ask Drita directly.

She gives Thanas a nervous glance.

“That bad?” I eye them both.

“It has a reputation. When the Communists fell, Albania was…” Thanas pauses. “It went through a difficult time.”

Tom rubs his hands. “I love a challenge,” he says, and Thanas and Drita have the grace to laugh.

“We shall be okay with the weather,” Thanas says. “The motorway is open, and it hasn’t snowed for a couple of weeks.”

“Shall we get going?” I ask, eager to leave.

* * *

The landscape has changed. Gone are the dreary, fallow fields of Northern Europe; the terrain is stark, rocky, and barren in the winter sunshine. Under any other circumstances, Alessia might have enjoyed this journey. She’s had a lightning tour of Europe’s highways. But she’s with Anatoli, the man she’ll be forced to marry—and she still has to face her father when they reach Kuk?s. She is not looking forward to the inevitable confrontation, and deep down she knows it’s because her mother will bear the brunt of his anger.

They tear across another bridge at an alarming speed. Below them is a vast body of water, reminding Alessia of the Drin—and reminding her of the sea.

The sea.

And Maxim.

He gave me the sea.

Will she ever see him again?

“The coastline in Croatia is very picturesque. I do a lot of business here,” says Anatoli, breaking the silence that’s hung between them since they left Zagreb.

Alessia glances at him. She doesn’t care about his business. She doesn’t want to know what he does. There was a time when she was curious, but that time has passed. Besides, as his wife—a good Albanian wife—she will ask no questions.

“I have several properties here.” He gives her a wolfish grin, and she realizes he’s trying to impress her, like he did when she first met him.

She turns away, staring out at the sea, and her mind spirals back to Cornwall.

* * *

The drive out of Tirana is frankly terrifying. Pedestrians have an unnerving habit of just stepping out into the road, and the roundabouts are free-for-alls—cars, trucks, buses all jostling for priority. It’s like a giant game of chicken, and at this rate my nerves will be in shreds by the time we reach Kuk?s. Tom is constantly slamming his hand on the dashboard, yelling at pedestrians and drivers alike. It’s bloody annoying.

“For fuck’s sake, Tom, shut the fuck up! I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Sorry, Trevethick.”

By some miracle we make it out of the city center unscathed. Once we reach the main road, I start to relax a little, but I drive slowly; drivers here are unpredictable.

There are several car dealerships and countless petrol stations on the roadside. As we leave Tirana behind, we pass a grand, imposing neoclassical building that looks rather like a wedding cake.

“What’s that place?” I ask.

“It’s a hotel,” Thanas says. “It’s been under construction for many years.” He shrugs when our eyes meet in the rearview mirror.

“Oh.”

The lowlands look fertile and green considering it’s February. There are squat, red-roofed houses dotted among the fields. While I drive, Thanas gives us a potted history of Albania and shares more information about himself. His parents lived through the fall of Communism, and both of them learned English via the BBC World Service, even though it was banned under Communist rule. It transpires that the BBC, and most things British, are held in high regard by Albanians. It’s where they all want to go. There or America.

Tom and I exchange a glance.

Drita speaks quietly to Thanas, and he translates. Kuk?s was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in 2000, after the town accepted hundreds of thousands of refugees during the Kosovan conflict.

This I knew. I remember Alessia’s look of pride when she regaled me about Kuk?s and all things Albanian in the pub in Trevethick.

It’s been two days since she left, and I feel like I’m missing a limb.

Where are you, my love?

* * *

We join the main motorway to Kuk?s, and soon we are flying into the chilliest of blue skies, steadily climbing higher and higher toward the majestic, snowcapped peaks of the Albanian Alps, and the Shar and Korab mountain ranges that dominate the landscape. There are gorges with clear white-water rivers, craggy canyons, and steep, jagged cliffs. It’s stunning, and apart from this modern motorway the land around us seems untouched by time. There’s an occasional hamlet with terra-cotta-tiled houses, smoke rising from chimneys, stooks of hay flecked with snow, washing on lines, goats free, goats tethered—this is Alessia’s country.

My sweet girl.

I hope you’re okay.

I’m coming to get you.

* * *