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“It went on for a week. I couldn’t recognize anything about her. I drew near and my skin crawled with abhorrence.” She softened against him, the words wringing her out. “Right before the end, Lady Raleigh drove over in her pony carriage, with a basket of cheese and grapes and beef tea. I remember she took the lid off the pot on the hob and pursed her lips at the cold oats, like she was in pain. She wanted to read to Mother from the Bible. She’d brought her youngest son, to teach him about charity.”

“James.” Griffith’s chin came to rest on the crown of her head. Her cheek pressed the fabric of his coat, which smelled like soap and heath and some subtle, drugging scent that came from him alone.

“James,” she said softly. “That’s how we met. We stood in the corner, and he held my hand. He asked me about my mother’s favorite things, what we liked to do together. He helped me see her again. And that helped me say goodbye.” She twined her fingers together in her lap. “He wasn’t yet twelve, because I was scarcely eight. But he knew how to give me something I needed more than charity, or even compassion. Even if we’d never spent another moment in each other’s company, I’d have loved him forever.” Her eyelids felt heavy and wet, and she realized she’d turned more of her face into Griffith’s coat. She was too flustered, and too snugly secured, to move away.

“Do you know he researches rabies? There’s a method now, to protect people who’ve been bitten by rabid animals. Hydrophobia can be prevented.” She strove for businesslike briskness. “James says we’re close to stamping out the disease altogether.” She faltered, unable to present a façade, not now that she’d allowed it to crumble.

“I thought the advances would put my fear in perspective. But it defies perspective. It defies everything. When it comes on, I’m back there, in the yard with my mother, and the dog is lurching toward us. That moment—sometimes it feels like the only real moment of my life.”

“It’s not.” His voice was gruff and low, and his body was solid against hers, and the reality of it flooded her from head to toe.

She lifted her head, angling her face up to him. His pupils had dilated. His eyes consumed her, dark and hungry. As her lips parted, a cool droplet splashed the corner of her mouth. The leaves quivered and began to dance.

“Rain.” Slowly, Griffith withdrew his arm, giving her time to anchor herself. Catlike, he stretched his lean torso and levered himself up, climbing to higher boughs. “That sheepdog belonged to that cottage.” He pointed with his chin. “I can see him behind the gate.”

She heard the question in his voice.

“I can climb down now,” she said. “Let’s ride. Before the rain gets worse.”

19

It wasn’t long before the rain did get worse. For the first few miles, it pattered lightly, and they passed under bright breaks in the clouds. Even when it began to pour, they could see patches of sky in the distance, and as they crested a hill, Muriel heard Griffith shout with glee, and a moment later she understood why. Colored bands of light shimmered overhead and seemed to touch down behind the next hill. With one glance, they made an unspoken decision, standing simultaneously on their pedals. They rode faster, chasing the rainbow’s end, until the clouds reconfigured, and the diaphanous ribbon dimmed to nothing. By then, Muriel was panting, collapsed on the seat, rain streaming on her face and up her sleeves. She was still wrung out from all she’d said, but she didn’t feel depleted. Her chest ached, a hundred emotions expanding into the space she’d opened. As the road sloped down, the wind pushed at her back, aiding her effortless acceleration, and it seemed for a moment she might leave the ground and fly. She cackled for joy.

There was a gradual rise into more hills, and then they descended into a deeper valley. The clouds followed them down, nearly black, and suddenly, the rain came from all directions. It sprayed up from their tires, and blew in sideways sheets, and drenched them from above. They kept riding, but ever more slowly, as the road divided into rivulets.

“Dismount!” called Griffith.

“No!” she called back.

“What?” His shout was disbelieving. “Dismount!”

“We can’t be far,” she protested, splashing through a puddle.

“It doesn’t matter how far we’ve left to go if we break our necks now!” came the response.

He meant her neck, of course. And she’d slowed them down enough already.

When he jumped off his bicycle, she kept riding.

“Don’t strike off alone!” she upbraided him as she passed.

“You are striking off alone,” he retorted.

“I’m continuing along the agreed-upon route!” She didn’t trust herself to steer in the wet dark while yelling over her shoulder, so she yelled into the storm. “You are obstructing the path!”

She laughed wildly. Her skirts were soaked and slapped the bicycle’s iron frame.

“Penny.” He rode up on her left.

“I love storms.”

“Penny.”

“We’ll make it in no time,” she told him, blinking the water from her eyes.

“Dismount,” he commanded.

At that instant, her front wheel plunged down into sucking mud. The world blurred, and she whipped around with the bicycle, limp as a rag doll. As she slid to a hard stop, her head jerked forward and back, and her outstretched foot skidded on the gravel.