‘Shit.’ I breathe, raising a shaking hand to my mouth. I’ve never felt her outside before, only in the house. She’s everywhere. I hear the words in my head as clearly as if they were spoken directly into my ear. I scrabble to my feet, still in the water, my toes sinking into the mud just as I imagined they would, when I feel it again under the water. Something smooth and hard. Reaching down, my fingers disappearing into the silty water disturbed by my own movements, I fumble around until I find it, my hand closing over the cold surface and I slowly draw it up. A silver baby’s rattle. The handle is an ornate twist of silver, the top a smooth oval. I rub at the metal, wiping away the mud to reveal an intricate pattern of flowers and swirls, before giving it a small shake. There is the thin rattle of a bell, as though water and mud have found their way inside to dull it. Holding it tightly in my fist, I have an overwhelming sense of grief, a sadness so strong that I sit back down on the grass to steady myself. A wave of rage follows this, an anger so fiery that I have to close my eyes against the red mist that descends. It’s hers, I think, the image of a small girl rising in my mind, dressed in white, calling for her mother. This belongs to Agnes’s child. I don’t know how I know, but I know that it does. Clutching it tightly I get slowly to my feet, my head thumping and nausea swirling in my belly. You have to stop them. The voice in my ear comes again, clear and knowing.