In summer the river would move slowly, a lazy blue thing that would delight with promises of languorous nights and days free from responsibility. Now, though, now it tore through the land, muddy water and white, frothy chop: turbulent and frenzied. If a person were to slip and fall in, there would be no question of rescue—it would already be too late.

No one wanted to stay around for this part. People only wanted the sunshine and the parasols and the charming picnic lunches. No one cared about the flood that came after.

Well, let them be fools; it was no matter to her. And how was she supposed to see how her designs translated to reality if this ugly table was squatting in the middle of everything? She took off her gloves and pushed hard against it, shoving all her sudden rage into the action. It protested at first, but another furious push got it moving, its legs scraping angrily across the uneven floor. Finally, it slammed into the far corner, and Alva leaned against it, panting.

“Alv—Mrs. Webster?” Sam’s voice said from the doorway, and she came back to herself abruptly. What was coming over her lately? One minute she was terrified, the next almost in tears, and the next she wanted to scream. She couldn’t even trust her own thoughts anymore.

“Professor Moore,” she said, hating how wobbly her voice sounded. “Good evening.”

He was leaning against the doorframe, his large, solidly built bulk filling almost the whole opening. There was a slight smile playing on his lips, not the full-on dazzling Moore Smile, but one of its playful predecessors. And it was as though the house calmed with her; it got a little lighter, suddenly more dust than rot.

“Ah, I see,” he said. “You had a sudden urge to rearrange the furniture. My mother has those, too. It’s why my parents can’t share a lab.”

“I was—” She looked at the table behind her, wondering how much he’d seen. Thinking quickly, she gestured towards the rolled-up plans she’d dropped on the table. “I needed to see the whole room, to make sure my designs will work here.”

Sam made an excited murmuring sound and strode towards them, for all the world like a small boy headed towards a Christmas tree. She snatched them away.

“No,” she said.

“But—”

“No.”

“But—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Mrs. Webster, you cannot actually be so cruel as to stand there with schematics and not let me see them.”

“They’re just blueprints. You know, blue paper, white lines, that sort of thing.”

“Uh-huh. Did you design them yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Then they’re not just blueprints,” he said. “Maggie corresponds with him, you know.”

Alva blinked. “Who?”

“Poitevin.” When she merely stared, he continued. “The man who invented blueprints? It’s quite a clever technique. One I will explain to you in painful, tedious, exacting detail unless you hand over the plans.”