Although she has stood here—or somewhere very like here—many times before, tonight, the beach feels different. For the first time since she stepped ashore so many months ago, freedom is within touching distance. The sand between her toes, the push and pull of the tide; her heart is beating with excitement, with anticipation. She opens her mouth and sings one of the old songs: Ionn da, ionn do, ionn da, od-ar da. Her chest resonates with it, the notes blending with the sounds of the wind and the tide. Seals call back, almost as if they are replying. She hears the response, perhaps only in her head, but oh, the joy of it. A chorus of voices singing: Hi-o dan dao, hi-o dan dao, hi-o dan dao, od-ar da.

In the fading light, the woman takes a step toward the water, now a blanket of shining black, the waves ready to take her. She longs to submerge herself, to give herself to it, to swim out as far as she can; to sink down; to forget all that she has been and done, all that has been done to her.

Naked now, the woman hesitates: the child is behind her, the other side of the sea wall, by the shop where she left her. She waited as long as she could for Ruby, but her supposed friend didn’t come. A flash of anger within: a sacred trust was broken. Ruby said she loved the child, that she loved them both, but perhaps she lied. Trust is always a gamble. She won’t make that mistake again. She won’t need to after tonight, as it marks the end of all of that, all of this life and everything attached to it.

She consoles herself that she didn’t leave the child entirely alone—there were people inside the shop when she ran. They’ll come out and find her; they have to. A small voice says, But if they don’t? The guilt is heavy on her now, getting heavier with every second. She takes a step away, toward the road. How can she leave, not even knowing if her baby will be safe?

A voice pushes her back in the direction of the water as surely as a hand on her back. “Constance,” it says, or seems to say. The second time she hears it, it sounds like the waves on the shingle. Was it real? Or was the voice an illusion, cast by the strength of her longing? She thought she could hear them, singing out to her, calling for her, but now she’s convinced she can’t. They’re not here for her; it’s been too long. They haven’t come.

A wave wets her feet. She looks down: they gleam.