But the bluff was still there, and so was the lake. I went through the tall grass, pursued by the eerie feeling that I was walking with Tom Flanagan and Rose Armstrong as they fled the burning house, and came up out of the hollow. The land fell away spectacularly for a hundred yards or more, dropping down a thickly overgrown cliff. The lake winked back sunlight. Tom's woods blanketed the sides. I'd had no idea of the scale, that it was all so large and the woods so extensive — they looked forbiddingly thick — and the lake so long. It must have been nearly a mile across.
Rose Armstrong, I thought, and then I saw a tiny strip of gold at the lake's far end and my heart stopped. I nearly fell down the bluff. At that moment I believed everything Tom had said to me.
I could almost see them there, Tom and his Rose, curled together on the tiny strip of sand beside a book and a glass bird; could almost see her whispering whatever she had whispered into his ear before she . . . what? Slipped into the water and left all that was human behind her, welded into Tom Flanagan's memory?
A warm wind came from nowhere: mustard flower; gin; cigar smoke. I could have told myself that I caught all those odors. The surface of the lake darkened and belled under the shadow of a cloud, and I turned back to walk across the ruins of Shadowland to my car.