The rumble of the waterfall that winds down from the lake on the botanical trail is audible from the parking lot, which means that Jane has guessed correctly and the start of the woods is a short walk around the corner. Opening the boot of the car she unzips her bag and roots around for her jumper, while behind her Sam spins in a circle and barks as if he is expecting a ball. Jane shows him her empty hands, says, “Quiet,” and he diligently studies both palms before trotting across the road and into a grassy field, where he lifts his leg beside a boulder.
Jane steps onto the road and her eyes adjust to the landscape, to how the early dawn light gives the asphalt a slick hue and the field across from her a denser texture; to how the woods on either side of the field bristle against the heavy grey drift of the clouds. If she turns right she knows that she will come to a stone bridge flanking the falls. Lily had insisted they stop there, and William had lifted her up carefully, holding her tightly by the waist so that she could throw leaves into the cuff of frothing water at the bottom of the twenty-foot drop. George Farrington, William had explained, had engineered the whole system in the late 1860s — narrowing the river in parts, damming the valley to form the lake, carving out the falls with the idea that they could eventually provide power for turbines that would serve the village. Jane remembers William marvelling over it, how one man’s desires could control so many things.
It’s only when Sam wanders farther into the field across from the church and Jane moves to follow him that she realizes she is standing between the woods where N went missing and the trail where Lily disappeared. The chimneystacks, hipped roof and lead dome of Inglewood House are silhouetted to her left above the row of chestnut trees that divides the estate grounds and the field; the Whitmore would be a ten- or eleven-mile walk west beyond that. She calculates that if she turns right and walks twenty minutes in the opposite direction to the Whitmore, past the waterfall and along the Farrington trail, she’ll be at the spot where Lily was lost. And it’s this knitted thought — of Lily lost and N missing — that startles her. All of her adult life she’s used the word lost for Lily and missing for people like N. As if Lily’s accident, death or kidnapping was an act of negligence on her part, and hers alone, one that William, the police, the man or woman who may or may not have snatched her — that Lily herself — had nothing to do with. Lost, like one loses a mitten, a book or a key, something entrusted to you and lost through a lack of attention.
Jane turns toward the botanical trail and walks quickly. Her nose is dripping. She wipes it on the sleeve of her jumper, shocked that she has just blamed a five-year-old girl for messing around and running in and out of eyesight in perfectly ordinary woods on what should have been a perfectly common day.
Even in the wooded dusk it takes Jane only fifteen minutes to get from the gate to the place where the woods open onto the lake. On that day with Lily, with the slow progress they’d made, it had seemed to take hours. But Jane is walking quickly because even though the sky is slowly steeped with blue, the woods are rustling, and the shapes of the bushes and beech trees change as she gets close to them. There’s a push and pull to what she’s doing. On the one hand she’s acting purposefully for the first time in almost twenty years; on the other hand, she’s afraid of what she’s moving toward. Lily’s disappearance taught her that there is malevolence in the world, and that it can come at you unexpectedly, pass its hand over your body like a magician: abracadabra, you’re gone.
Walking along the trail behind Jane the theologian does a roll call, though it takes some time to sort out whose voice says, “Here.” John uses his name and is smug about it, and Cat says, “Meow,” and the one with the soft voice calls, “Yes, I’m coming, I’m coming, and I have the girl.” The musician, the poet and the idiot raise various kinds of cheers, and the boy vroooms, and the one who rarely speaks hoots softly like an owl.
“The old man?” the theologian asks, and no sound follows.
The poet makes the slurping sound of someone sucking on his teeth but fashions it into a question.
“Also gone,” the theologian says.
Our rank is depleted, but even as we try to identify the others we’d felt travelling with us over the past few years — those stragglers who seemed like a caste of distant relations — we are at a loss as to how to describe them. The shape of our group is new again, its edges uncertain. This reminds some of us of what happened at the Whitmore: most days the breakfast tables would be lined with familiar faces; then suddenly, two or three would be gone and a stranger would appear out of nowhere — though looking up from your plate you couldn’t always say who was new and who was missing.
When we arrive at the part of the trail where Lily disappeared, it is the blue hour, the trees soaked in stillness, the lake as slick as a lacquered plate. Some of us are sure that we know this place — and not just from the images William’s lecture inspired, from his talk of shooting parties and garden plantings, but because some of us have stood here before, can remember Jane, fifteen and terrified, rooted near the very spot where she is currently standing.
“Once there were peacocks here,” the theologian says. He turns from Jane and looks up the trail. “They’d wander off the estate grounds and into the nearby grotto. There’s a path off that way that leads to the largest of the caves.”
We watch him move along the trail to where he thinks the path begins, but a few minutes later he is back, deflated. Either he is wrong, or the path is gone — the intervening century hiding it under a wood-fall of twigs and leaves.
Jane edges her way down the slope that leads to the lake just as she’d watched William do that day on the trail. Her right foot slips on her first step and she has to grab the branch of a tree, move down in increments. When she gets to the shoreline she finds a flat rock that juts out of the bank above the water and sits on it, wiping her face with the heel of her palm.
“Is she crying?” the musician asks. And those of us who have already made it down the slope sit beside her and study her face.
“Wouldn’t you?” Cat asks.
“Hardly,” he replies — though we can all hear the tenderness in his voice.
The lake, to Jane’s surprise, is beautifuclass="underline" the line of pink sky ribboning the gap between the trees at its far end mirrored on the water, the cliff gazing down at its own bleary reflection. She always thought this landscape would be instantly recognizable, fixed in her brain, but now she finds she can’t be sure if William came from the part of the trail that runs up above where she’s sitting, or if everything happened farther along. A laugh bubbles up in her throat: where everything happened? She sounds like her mother — always referring to Lily’s disappearance as if it were a natural disaster involving citizens in a country difficult to pinpoint on a map. Sometimes Jane would count the weeks or months between any references to it at all, as if it weren’t a weight she was living with daily, as if, in those first few years, she wasn’t startled every time by the phone ringing in the cottage or in her grandparents’ entry hall, as if one call couldn’t change everything. For years, Jane believed that some trifling piece of information — the physique of a stranger, a colour or gesture, a sound or a word — might stretch the frame of that day, bring a barely glimpsed hiker to mind, reveal an image of Lily orienting her body back toward the gate or to the lake. But her memory of what happened is always the same: she is half watching Lily, half peering up ahead for William; the game continues and Lily has missed a post, so Jane stops beside it and, after a minute, calls for Lily to come back around the bend, smoothing the petals in her pocket while she waits.