Her heart was racing. So was her mind. Every inch of her mind was saying, pause, consider, reflect. But her body—her soul—did not think the way her mind did. It did not think. It knew what it needed. It knew what it wanted. It knew.

Nine Months After That

Early one January morning on the coast of Liguria, on a winter day so temperate it could have been claimed by spring, a brief rain washed the sky of any trace of haze. The clouds, gathering quickly, deposited their shower, and then, almost as quickly, scattered over the hills. From a bend in the road near the invisible border between the towns of Recco and Camogli, a view opened up as far as Genoa, whose lighthouse winked at distant vessels. The sea was so pristine that even from the top of the cliffs, where a bench was perfectly positioned to survey the coastline, fish could be seen darting among the rocks in the water.

Henry had never been much interested in views, but he succumbed to this one. In most every direction vividly painted old villas were tucked into steep hills and flanked by gardens that were lush even in January. Many of the surrounding slopes were terraced and planted with olives and grapes, figs and persimmons, lemons, oranges, and kumquats. But it was the sea that held Henry’s attention most closely. It had more shades of blue and green in it than he could either count or name. Its constant subtle movements were hypnotic. For long stretches he gazed with absorption at this apparently infinite shelf of shivering scallops and crescents that were interrupted, here and there, by a fishing boat or a traghetto producing a fan-shaped wake. The sea was never still, never hewed to its pattern for more than a second; looking into the water felt to Henry like looking into time itself.