A huge gust of wind hits me from behind, and I let out a little moan at the cold and shock. It blows into my nightgown, freezing wetness against my skin. I hold myself rigid against the force, but it makes me take a step forward.

That’s when my foot hits something wet. A patch on the rock—mud, probably. My body moves in an uncontrolled slide, a sharp scream entering the air.

It’s me. I’m the one screaming as I head directly for the edge.

Pain in my shoulder. A large hand clamps down on me and pulls me back. I grasp onto it, onto him, and hold on tight. We both slide down. He grabs my wrist in a punishing grip. There’s a hard yank that feels like it pops my arm from the socket—and then I’m sprawled onto the hard, wet rock. There’s an uneasy absence of sound above the roar of the ocean. Nothing. No one. I’m alone up here. I scramble over to the edge and down.

On part of the slope about ten feet down, Mr. Rochester is sprawled. He used his momentum, surging forward to push me back onto solid ground.

“Beau,” I scream.

He doesn’t move.

“Oh my God. Oh my God.” I don’t know how to get to him without falling the same way he did. And even if I get down there, how will I lift him back up? “Hold on, just hold on.”

“You called me Beau,” he says, his voice strained.

“Oh thank God you’re alive.” My heart is beating out of my chest. “I thought you died.”

He gives an uneven laugh. “It would probably feel better than this.”

“I’m coming down there!”

“Don’t you dare. I’ll fucking throttle you. Go find Paige, and get her back inside.”

I bite my lip, uncertain. Maybe I should find Paige. She’s small and defenseless. At least Beau seems conscious right now. And relatively stable. Despite the slope, he’s probably not going to roll down like it’s a grassy hill. Except what if he has internal bleeding? He might be delirious. He might be dying. “No, I’m not leaving you here. Paige is probably off somewhere painting a rock she found. Or maybe she even got back into bed.”

He swears extensively. I’m pretty sure I hear some words that have to do with boats and sailing and fish mixed in there, the old Maine vernacular running true. He puts a hand to his head. “I think I’m all in one piece. Mostly. I need a large glass of whiskey. Or a bottle.”

“First we need to get you out of there. Do you think we need to call in like… a rescue team?” I’m envisioning something with ropes and pulleys and a stretcher. “I’ll call nine-one-one.”