Now the man straightened quite sharply and retreated toward the Lancia. The engine purred quietly, the rear light flickered bright red for a second, then the car merged into the heavy shroud.

6

WILL LAUGHED ALOUD. IT SOUNDED HOLLOW INSIDE HIS HEAD, BUT HE felt like Dante as he passed from Purgatory to Eden. This celestial being, crouched now beside him on the slope of the riverbank, had such a clear voice, so piercing, like Dante’s angel. L’angel cantava in voce assai piu che la nostra viva, he thought, “more piercing and clear than ours…”

“Will?” she repeated. She tried not to be hysterical, but Melissa thought at first that he was dead. She was confronted with a dilemma: should she risk moving him and possibly damage his spine, or leave him in the freezing water? She called frantically backward down the lane in the direction toward her cottage. His eyes were lolling, not focusing at all, and he was laughing incoherently. The signal from her cell phone kept dipping: the damned fog. Now she was connected with 999, arranging an ambulance, listening to advice about the victim’s position, answering questions about his neck, describing his blood loss, the severity of his leg wound. She couldn’t control her voice, she knew; she was scared she’d do the wrong thing; but she mastered the situation as best she could, put her coat over him, and tried to look calmer than she felt.

Why is she so worried? he thought. He took in the details of her face: one of Raphael’s putti, perhaps, more than a grown angel; her gentle touch, and the warmth that spread over him from her coat. He heard words like “sinews” and “tourniquet” and “hypothermia” and, strangely, “head injury”; but that was an eternity away from his own experience. He was floating freely—vaguely aware of the red spreading through the little pool of water near to him, like wasted claret—but feeling no pain, no concerns, content and serene. Shafts of color made an extraordinary kaleidoscopic journey through his mind, like his grandmother’s emerald and ruby necklace when he was a child.

Sirens wailed around him. He shrank from them instinctively, and suddenly felt this was not a place he wanted to be. He thought of leaving another message after the tone.

THE FIGURE IN A LIGHT OLIVE JACKET AND FADED DENIMS LOOKED ALMOST relaxed as he placed a briefcase and a shopping bag from FAO Schwarz on the floor and an overcoat on the low table, then slipped into the seat beside them. The business lounge was surprisingly full, but Alex had picked a spot where he could make some calls without disturbing those bent at their laptops.