Sneaking the cloak and hiding it in her closet underneath a dress was easier than it should have been. The maid was either blind or wished to stay away from the young mistress' business.

At night, their house turned into a castle with its sighing steps, shadows and the hiding spots behind the couches and curtains... but navigating it in the dark proved simple enough.

Out of doors, it wasn't even all that spooky.

About the only thing that took Mabel by surprise was that even with the pale pre-dawn light to see by, it took her longer to reach the lake than in the daytime. It didn't matter, though, because she stood on the bluff when the sun pushed through the clouds. She clutching her stolen cloak closer to ward off the rising breeze. The tilted rays gilded the underbellies of the clouds. She bit her lips. The stormy morning mirrored her restlessness with the lapping of water.

Why did she take it into her head that Everett would be swimming precisely at sunrise, while Miss Carter said nothing of the kind? What a fool had she been! No sane man jumped into a lake in October, unless they caught on fire. Maybe in the middle of a battle, with roaring cannons exploding and swords whistling, maybe then an embrace of icy water would be welcome. But the countryside mocked her with gentle gurgles and rustling, until the quivering bird song broke it. A wayward lark rose into the sky.

This mad escapade was fruitless. Now, right now, she should run and never come back, particularly at this hour. She could daydream in the afternoons all she wanted, or in the safety of her parent's garden.

Mabel made a few shuffling steps, but the lonely song from up high arrested her. She took a lungful of the morning air and tilted her head back. Which shadow in the sky was her morning singer?

The pine's boughs swung lightly, whispered to the wind and imbued it with the scent of sap. It bled down the trunks, the amber tears, almost the same colour as the cliffs that the lake water carved out of rock. They weren't imposing hundred feet drops. Their tops didn't touch the clouds, no matter how low they descended from Heavens, yet she loved it. The rocks invited her to climb down the natural steps and touch the blue waters. A stream running into the lake to her right tumbled in over a stone in a miniature waterfall, filling the air with a wistful accompaniment to the songbird's efforts.

Her tormented heart revelled in peace. She leaned against a slender pine tree and waited for the sun to crest the line of the hills. Above her, more birds fluttered out of hiding and tried out their voices. The lightest mist lifted from the surface of the water leaving it to mirror every leaf and every stone.

The natural scene was so dreamlike, that when Mabel spotted the tall, broad-shouldered figure on the other shore, she had to pinch herself. For without such a homey test, she wasn't quite sure that she hadn't somehow succumbed to Morpehus' seductive whisperings and he showed her exactly what she longed to see.

Except sleep didn't descend on her eyelashes. Either she was dreaming with her eyes open or this was Everett in the flesh. And Miss Carter was right—there was no mistaking him for any other man in Lancashire. Or any other man in England. And for her, for her, there would never be mistaking him for any other man in the whole wide world.

Like her, Everett arrived on foot instead of galloping on his horse. She imagined he didn't dash from shadow to shadow or glanced about like a frightened hare.

She couldn't see his smaller movements over the distance that separated them, but she modestly averted her eyes when his dark jacket dropped to the ground, exposing the crisp white of his shirt.

Even if all she was looking at was the toes of her shoes twisting into grass, even when she stepped behind her pine tree, her face burned. Her knees would have given out if she didn't grasp the sticky trunk for support. Clutching it, she still shook worse than an aspen leaf, intoxicated by the notion that he was near, yet out of reach, and she could see him and remain unseen. And that she was doing something excitingly, patently wrong.

The loud splash announced to her ears that Everett jumped into the water, so she crept from behind the tree. His body should be decently cloaked in the shimmering water.

It was.

And it wasn't.

Her fantasies fell far from the truth. Spying on Everett wasn't like watching a swan glide on the waves; she couldn't have been more wrong. It didn't pour balm on her troubled soul, because he wasn't some dratted swan.

He swam beautifully like a man. His wide shoulders crested the water, his arms cut rhythmic strokes into the shimmering water. It lost its calming blue, dressed into golden, rosy and peach hues of the reflected sky. In that giant Champagne glass, his vigour and outstanding deportment was as obvious on the horseback or in the ballroom, but it was also different.

At first, she didn't know what about his swimming so robbed her of shame that she yearned to waddle into the water. Then she understood. His strokes held the sense of purpose that she hadn't gleaned when he danced. In crossing the surface of this lake, he seemed to be pursuing the course that pleased him as nothing else would please him, for it was his own.

Mabel frowned, trying to decide if her mind was playing tricks on her or if she discovered a new trait to Everett's character, this secret desire to reach a distant shore no matter what.

As far as Walton's side of the lake was concerned, Everett's efforts had nearly paid off. It was his home shore now that was the farthest away from him.

After showing such determination with his crossing, he didn't leave the water, even though he had gotten within yards from the Walton side's rocks. Rather, he flipped on his back and rested for a bit. She could discern the white of his drawers, in contrast to the skin colour of his bare chest and the black circle of his head.

Then he back-flipped, thigh hindquarters flashing and swam back home.

This was it. She had seen him and could go home, pressing her hands to her cheeks. Her heart could beat easier, freed from dreams and fears. Except that it didn't beat easier at all. Not by a shred, not by a speck. Like an old drunkard in the pub is drawn to ale, so Mabel was now drawn to the Border Lake and Everett.

By day she rode out to stroll among the pines, stroking their rough trunks and plucking sticky amber droplets from her gloves. The mare snorted, mocking the vapid smile playing on her features. She told the mare to be quiet.

Only, on some days this wasn't enough.

She could not stay abed, tossing and turning till sunrise. Then she would get up and creep through the house with stealth that had become habitual. She sneaked out and ran to her secret rendezvous. This is the last time, she promised herself, as her cloak no longer staved off the chill of approaching winter. Surely, he would give it up swimming in November?

But Everett came again, and she was there for it. His pursuit of an unknown purpose ached in her, provoking a response. She knew the same restlessness, the same yearning for something beyond the border. She even began to imagine she was his foretold goal, in the manner of some ancient myth. This absurd idea drove her to come closer to the spot where he'd almost come ashore and rest.

Closer and closer, like a lured beast comes to its bait. Concealed by the reeds now, rather than the pine trees, she fantasized of their fated meeting and smouldered with shame and joy.

It was on the Wednesday of a week prior to the one when Hazel would be wed, that in abrupt departure from his habits, Everett stood up in the water.

Mabel's lips parted in a silent cry of alarm as she saw a trap snapping in her imagination. She wanted to dash away, and she couldn't lift a finger.

The water splashed against his hips and cascaded down his chest for a glorious moment, as if he were a rock under a waterfall. The outline of hair as dark as his head covered his chest and cut off by the white waistband. A scar, puckered and pink from the cold, zigzagged down his shoulder, and another, like a splotch, undercut his rib cage.

Hazel had called him Adonis, but when he rose from the waters of the lake, another mythical being came to Mabel's mind: the mightier, wide-chested Triton of the deep, the one who could raise the storms on the seas.

And almost like Triton with his conch horn, Everett steepled his hands around his mouth and called out to her—to her!—in the reeds.

"Ahoy, ye on land! All proper English ladies should be abed at this hour!"

Her knees buckled and she dropped to the ground.