In the street the rain lashed furious at the ugly wind. The wind took the heavy pantaloons and used them to fling Esme(e) into the wall. 
        For a moment the wracked storm clouds ripped asunder and the ragged moon spat old light upon the cobbles. Wind snapped the rain-sodden collar of the cloak into Esme(e)'s face stinging. Esme(e) did not flinch, nor hesitate, but pressed on. 
        Esme(e) kicked furiously upon the staggered oaken door; the lantern was useless 
between the ring and the coin of Elizabeth's realm. 
        In the rubble on the floor of the abandoned captain's cottage with her face dipped into the cistern lay Edwina. 
        Too late. 
 
        Esme(e) lifted the bicycle over her head, the bicycle which had failed, that was easier than to say how she had failed, and heaved it with consummate fiery strength and straight perception over the lake's cliff. It bounced, skidded, spun, without sound. It stopped shy of the shingle where Edwina lay cold and tangled.