She had heard all of it, had watched Milton’s face go pale, his eyes springing tears, and then he had gone to his mother and kneeled at her chair and placed his head in her lap. Ada had not spoken to him. She had lifted her hand and put it on his head and gently stroked his hair, and Milton had repeated what his father had said: “He’s with his mama.”

The words had seemed to be a healing, as they had been with everyone who had said them or heard them during the day. There was no better place for Matthew than being with his mother.

An image of Sarah Magill Reynolds came to her mind. A laughing woman, startlingly pretty. An aura was on her, something radiant. She had never pitied herself over Matthew. He was her son, and her son was beautiful. It was told in the community that, on her deathbed, she had said, “Bring my son to me.” And she had died holding his hand against her face.

Now her son was with her again, and to the people of the Valley of Light who had gathered at the home of Howard and Ada Reynolds, that was reason to celebrate, not mourn, for all of them remembered the aura of Sarah, the God-touch of radiance that she wore like a garment made of sun-glow.

Eleanor raised her arm in the water, let it float. She watched a wisp of steam rising from her skin. The steam could have been her own aura.

She arched her body, and the water made a cushion under her back and lifted it up through the soapy surface. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back, let her body rock gently in the water, let the water lick softly at her skin.

She made a small gasp—involuntarily—and let her body sink again into the water. Lifted her hands and combed her fingers through her hair, leaving wet rows.

She thought of Noah.

Taylor had said he had gone for a walk.

Had said also that Noah blamed himself, even when everybody had assured him that what happened was not his fault.

“I’m not sure he’ll be coming back,” Taylor had added.

She took the bath cloth and soaped it and ran it over her body and then rinsed the soap by cupping her hand and pulling the water over her. She stood in the tub, reached for a towel and dried her face and arms and shoulders and breasts, then wrapped the towel around her and stepped from the tub.

The skin of her body was pink from the heat, pink as the color of a new child.

She, too, needed to walk, she thought.

There was still enough light for it.

A walk would feel good.

He had approached the lake through the woods, under the cover of hemlocks, avoiding the path from the pull-off at the road, thinking there still might be people going to and from the lake, though he had doubts about it. It was late afternoon. Those who wanted to see the spot where Matthew had been found would likely have done so earlier.