A little moan escaped her. She stretched her arms toward Matty, but yards separated them, and she was too frightened to brave the current. Help. She must get help.

She felt the water lift and drag her forward as she turned, but she plunged on, digging her heels and toes in for purchase. The current slacked and she clambered out, standing for a moment on the muddy bank as a wave of weakness swept over her. Once more she looked at Matty, saw the outline of his legs twisting sideways in the current. Then she ran.

The house loomed through the dark arches of the trees, its white limestone walls eerily luminous in the dusk. Julia bypassed the front door without thinking. On around the house her feet took her, toward the kitchen, and warmth, and safety. Gasping from the steep climb up the hillside, she rubbed at her face, slick with rain and tears. She was conscious of her own breathing, of the squelching sound her shoes made with each step, and of the heavy wet wool of her skirt scratching her thighs.

Julia yanked open the kitchen door and stopped just inside, water pooling around her on the flags. Plummy turned from the Aga, spoon in hand, her dark hair disheveled as always when she cooked. “Julia! Where have you been? What will your mother have to say…?” The good-natured scolding faded. “Julie, child, you’re bleeding. Are you all right?” She came toward Julia, spoon abandoned, her round face creased with concern.

Julia smelled apples, cinnamon, saw the streak of flour across Plummy’s bosom, registered in some compartment of her mind that Plummy was making apple pudding, Matty’s favorite, for tea. She felt Plummy’s hands grasp her shoulders, saw her kind and familiar face draw close, swimming through a film of tears.

“Julia, what is it? What’s happened? Where’s Matty?”

Plummy’s voice was breathy now with panic, but still Julia stood, her throat frozen, the words dammed behind her lips.