They had been sitting in their living room for an hour, unwinding over wine and cheese, listening to Mozart, and savoring the view that ran from Puget Sound and the pearly Seattle skyline a few miles to the east, to cozy Eagle Harbor closer at hand, where one of the big, green-and-white ferries from the city was amiably lumbering up to settle against the Bainbridge Island ferry dock, only two blocks away from where they sat and no more than a five-minute walk. The easy access to downtown Seattle-in effect, one could walk to it from semi-rural Bainbridge-was one of the big selling points of their recently purchased house, set higgledy-piggledy with its neighbors on the hillside above the dock.

The next ferry would be leaving at 5:10 and they planned to be on it for a Friday night dinner with friends and then a Mariner game at the new ballpark. In the meantime Gideon browsed through the day's output on the book he was working on and Julie fine-tuned their upcoming travel schedule-a four-week jaunt to Germany's Neander Valley, to Oxford and Sussex in England, and to the Dordogne in France, in that order, scheduled to begin the following week. The itinerary had been determined by Gideon's research needs. Julie, a supervisory park ranger at Olympic National Park's administrative headquarters in Port Angeles, would be visiting one or two parks while they were overseas, but was basically going along, as she freely put it, for the ride, and to provide much-needed "logistical support" for the notoriously absent-minded Gideon.

"'… situated in a small, rural village on the banks of the Ouse, within easy driving distance of Sheffield Park, Cuckfield, Pilt Down, etc. Sitting room with river view, one bedroom, one bath, small but modern kitchen with fridge…'" She stopped reading and waved the brochure at him. "Hello? Anybody there?"

"Hm? Oh, sorry. Sure, that sounds fine."

"What sounds fine?"

He cleared his throat. "What you said."