He had spied the little lake and the boat with a patchwork sail from atop the rugged hill. It hardly moved, stirred occasionally by a faint current or a nudging fish. No wind stirred the little vessel as it gently sought out the far side of the grassy lake edge. On the other side, he thought he could see a chair, or a coach. It was as if the walls of the house had vanished, leaving its contents cold and open on the mossy bank. The green reeds slashing wetly against his leather boots as he followed the fen trail to the lake. Faintly, a voice rose from the water. It sang a sweet and sorrowful strain, a song without words. A hand dipped into the water from over the boat’s varnished edge. A white finger conjured a fairy ring of ripples in the water. The wind came up to turn the boat slowly clockwise, revealing pale face and a cascade of red hair. Gray eyes looked up, expressionless. The mud laid claim to his boots as he stood still amongst the reeds. Her hand stayed in the water, her eyes cool, the song steady.
