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paralleled the road that had brought him into town the day before. He’d thought the river placid and pretty. This morning, though, the waters had been swollen to a torrent by the night’s heavy rain. Since he was taking the same route south again, he thought a moment, trying to remember if there had been a ford. No, the river and road had not crossed, which was fortunate because the floodwaters would make fording very dangerous today.
    As the morning advanced, the sun emerged from behind the clouds. He halted to admire the view from the crest of the highest hill in the area. That was part of a promise he’d made to himself: for whatever time he had left, he would never be too busy to admire a landscape or sniff a flower. He saw beauty in things he’d scarcely ever noticed before, and found a bittersweet pleasure in that.
    This view was well worth admiring. Miles of lush English countryside spread out before him, the multicolored fields and copses divided by blooming hedgerows. To his right, the swollen river cut a wicked path through the green fields. The channel was narrower and the current even more turbulent than downstream at Fletchfield.
    His gaze went along the road below him. A half mile ahead, a carriage and four wagons had pulled over to the side of the road because the last wagon had become mired in a muddy wallow. As Stephen watched, two men went to unfasten the team from the middle wagon to help pull the trapped vehicle free.
    There was something familiar about the figures that milled around the wagons. He studied them and realized that it was the Fitzgerald Theater Troupe. The company must have gotten an early start that morning. Thomas Fitzgerald himself was giving the orders for freeing the wagon. A young boy wandered toward the river, while the ladies of the troupe began to stroll along the edge of the road, a lanky dog providing escort.
    Except for one lady. Stephen smiled when he saw the tawny, bonnetless head of Rosalind Jordan. It was still hard to be sure of her figure, for she had a large shawl swathed about her. However, it was going to take time to free the wagon. Long enough for him to reach the travelers, make a polite offer of aid, and see Lady Caliban at close quarters. He set his horse, Jupiter, trotting down the hill.
    The place where the road leveled out was only about a hundred yards from the flooding river. He glanced at the swift current, then frowned. The dark-haired young boy from the troupe was climbing a willow tree that overhung the swift waters. The child’s parents should keep a closer watch, not that watching was easy with a lad that age.
    Stephen was turning his attention away when he heard a cracking sound and a startled cry. He whipped his gaze back to the river in time to see the branch that held the boy angle downward in horrifying slow motion. Finally it broke entirely, sending the small figure into the raging waters.
    A shout of alarm rose from the group around the wagons. As Stephen urged his horse toward the river, he saw from the corner of his eye a rush of movement as the members of the troupe raced toward the water.
    But they would be too late. The torrent was sweeping the boy toward Stephen at the speed of a cantering horse. The small dark head disappeared from sight under the muddy waters for long, frightening moments. Either he couldn’t swim, or he hadn’t the strength to fight the surging river.
    Stephen reached the embankment and catapulted from his horse, his mind racing. He was the only one who might be able help, but how? There were no fallen branches to extend because the river was cutting through a grain field here. Jupiter was a fine horse, but he’d always been a little water shy. It would be impossible to persuade him into the river quickly enough to save the boy.
    Even before his mind reached the logical conclusion, Stephen was stripping off his coat. Then he looked at the torrent and froze. It was fierce enough to overpower a