“But why?” she whispered. “There was no reason.”

Lillian’s determined jaw quivered as she tried to regain control over her emotions. “Given Matthew’s history, they said there was a risk of escape. But I think Waring insisted on it out of spite.”

Daisy felt lightheaded from the thunder of her own pulse. She was frightened, and yet at the same time part of her had become bizarrely detached. Briefly she summoned an image of Matthew, struggling in dark water, his hands bound and thrashing—

“No,” she said, pressing her palms against the violent throb of her temples. It felt as if nails were being driven into her skull. She couldn’t breathe well. “He had no chance, did he?”

Lillian shook her head and looked away. Drops of water fell from her face to the counterpane.

How strange, Daisy thought, that she wasn’t crying too. Hot pressure built behind her eyes, deep in her head, making her skull ache. But it seemed her tears were waiting for some thought or word that would trigger their release.

Daisy continued to hold her pounding temples, nearly blind from the pain in her head as she asked, “Are you crying for Matthew?”

“Yes.” Lillian pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her robe and blew her nose roughly. “But mostly for you.” She leaned close enough to wrap her arms around Daisy, as if she could protect her from all harm. “I love you, Daisy.”

“I love you, too,” Daisy said in a muffled voice, hurting and dry-eyed, and gasping for breath.

The search continued all that day and the next night, but all the ordinary rituals, the times for sleeping and working and eating, had lost their meaning. Only one incident managed to reach through the numb weight that pressed at Daisy from all sides, and that was when Westcliff had refused to let her come help in the search.

“You’ll be of no use to anyone,” Westcliff had told her, too exhausted and bedeviled to exercise his usual tact. “It’s dangerous and difficult out there with the water so high. At best you’ll be a distraction. At worst, you’ll get hurt.”

Daisy had known he was right, but that didn’t stop a flare of outrage. The feeling, startling in its force, threatened to disintegrate her control, and so she had hurriedly withdrawn back into herself.

Matthew’s body might never be found. That was too cruel to bear, the fate of having to reconcile herself to that. Somehow a disappearance was even worse than a death—it was as if he had never existed at all, leaving nothing to mourn over. She had never understood before why some people needed to see the body of a loved one after they had died. Now she did. It was the only way to end this waking nightmare and perhaps find the release of tears and pain.

“I keep thinking I should know if he were dead,” she told Lillian as she sat on the floor next to the parlor hearth. An old shawl was wrapped around her, comforting in its time-worn softness. Despite the heat of the fire, the layers of her clothing, the mug of brandied tea in her hands, Daisy couldn’t seem to get warm. “I should feel it. But I can’t feel anything, it’s as if I’ve been frozen alive. I want to hide somewhere. I don’t want to bear this. I don’t want to strong.”

“You don’t have to be,” Lillian said quietly.

“Yes I do. Because the only other choice is to let myself break into a million pieces.”

“I’ll hold you together. Every single piece.”

A paper-thin smile touched Daisy’s lips as she stared into her sister’s concerned face. “Lillian,” she whispered. “What would I do without you?”

“You’ll never have to find out.”

It was only the prodding of her mother and sister that induced Daisy to take a few bites of supper. She drank a full glass of wine, hoping it would distract her from the endless circling of her mind.

“Westcliff and Father should be back soon,” Lillian said tensely. “They’ve had no rest and likely nothing to eat.”

“Let’s go to the parlor,” Mercedes suggested. “We can distract ourselves with cards, or perhaps you might read aloud from one of Daisy’s favorite books.”

Daisy gave her an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, I can’t. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to be alone upstairs.”

After she had washed and changed into her nightclothes, Daisy glanced at the bed. Even though she was tipsy and weary, her mind rejected the notion of sleep.

The house was quiet as she went to the Marsden parlor, her bare feet touching shadows that crossed the carpeted floor like dark vines. A single lamp sent a yellow glow through the parlor, light catching in faceted crystals that hung from the shade and sending scattered dots of white over the flower-papered walls. A pile of printed flotsam and jetsam had been left by the settee: periodicals, novels, a thin volume of humorous poetry she had read aloud to Matthew, watching for the elusive smiles on his face.

How was it that everything had changed so quickly? How could life so cavalierly pick someone up and set them on a new and violently unwanted path?

Daisy sat on the carpet beside the pile and began to sort through it slowly…one pile to be brought to the library, another to be taken to the villagers on visiting day. But perhaps it wasn’t wise to attempt this after so much wine. Instead of forming two neat piles, the reading materials ended up scattered around her like so many abandoned dreams.

Crossing her legs, Daisy leaned against the side of the settee and rested her head on the upholstered edge. Her fingers encountered the cloth covering on one of the books. She glanced at it with half-closed eyes. A book had always been a door to another world…a world much more interesting and fantastical than reality. But she had finally discovered that life could be even more wonderful than a fantasy.