Her fingers tightened around Oliver’s. And she nearly laughed in relief when the sound of something shuffling against the garden path reached her ears. They both took off in the direction of the sound, coming up short when they saw a crouched figure.

But masculine instead of feminine. Mr. Menna. He looked up at their quick steps, brows furrowed. “Mr. Tremayne! And Lady Elizabeth. What brings you—”

“It’s Mamm-wynn. She’s slipped off again.” Oliver shoved his free hand through his hair. “You haven’t seen her, I assume?”

Mr. Menna stood, shaking his head. “No, but I’ll check the Gardens, if you wanted to look somewhere else.”

For a split second, Oliver hesitated. Debating, she assumed, whether to accept the help or insist they could do it alone. But concern must have won out over pride. He nodded. “Thank you. We’re going to check the beach, in case she thinks it Wednesday, since Libby and Benna are here.”

Mr. Menna stowed his small shovel in the wheelbarrow parked a few feet away and brushed the soil from his hands. “Good idea. You two go ahead. I know all her favorite spots here.”

They passed by the Tremayne house again on their way to the beach from which the racers always launched, and Libby pulled Oliver to a halt when a splash of brightest pink caught her eye. Cultivated daisies—Mesembryanthemum, a variety she’d never seen outside a hothouse before coming here—lying in the street rather than growing where they ought to be beside the Tremayne front door. She bent to pick them up, frowning at the neat slice on the stalks. “They’ve been cut, but obviously not long ago or they’d show some wilting. Perhaps she came out to gather some flowers?”

“Seems likely.” He accepted the blooms when she handed them to him, a brief smile flitting over his lips before retreating. “Beth’s favorite. Let’s hope Mamm-wynn left a trail of them, like bread crumbs, for us.”

She kept her eyes sharp for any other patches of color along the road, but they weren’t so lucky—or Mrs. Tremayne hadn’t come this way. Certainly when they arrived at the beach they saw no evidence of a pixie of a woman watching for racers that weren’t on the water.

Well, someone was, or was about to be. But he was stepping into a one-man gig. And he spotted them before he launched, which brought his feet back onto the sand. “Ollie!”

“Enyon.” Oliver hurried over to his friend.

As soon as they were close enough to see each other clearly, Enyon’s welcoming, teasing smile—and the gaze that he’d arrowed onto their joined hands—gave way to a worried frown. “Something’s wrong?”

“Mamm-wynn. Again.”

Enyon lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the sun painting fire over the water. “Early for her.”