George came awake suddenly, sitting up, breath catching in his throat.

He was completely alone in bed, no Jess, no Bandit.

No Scout.

And the room was freezing. The window was open, a wet wind whistling through. His bare chest broke out in goose-flesh as he got out of bed and hurried to the window. He leaned out, looking at the flagstoned terrace below, barely visible in the light cast by the quarter moon which was setting in the ocean to the west. He was only just able to reach the window, which had been swung out as far as it would go. It squealed in protest as he pulled it back.

How had it been opened without him hearing it?

He latched it shut, and went in search of Scout and the dogs, a knot of worry growing in his gut. The entire house was cold, too cold.

What in the hell was going on?

He could hear both dogs barking, very faintly, their monotonous, unvarying tone indicating that they were stuck somewhere, unable to get out. This meant that, wherever they were, they weren't with Scout. He walked faster, trying to go toward the sound of their barking, though it was hard to tell which direction it was coming from.

Jesus, it was cold. George stopped at the foot of the stairs where they led to the third floor. The barking seemed to be louder. But why would they be up there? No one ever went up there. He took the stairs three at a time and stopped on the landing.

The barking was definitely louder. He ran to the end of the hallway and turned the knob of the wide door that led to the attic, but it rattled uselessly in his hand. He could hear the dogs going crazy at the top of the next flight of stairs on the other side of the thick door, scratching at the wood, and he began to panic, the knot in his stomach growing bigger, heavier.

He felt along the top of the doorjamb for the old-fashioned key that should be up there, running his fingers desperately along the ledge from one side to the other. He moved so quickly that he knocked it off, hearing it clink uselessly onto the floor next to his foot. He dropped to his knees, feeling for the key as he wondered where in the world Scout could be, in the freezing cold darkness in her wispy pajamas. He finally grabbed the key and jammed it into the keyhole, turning it viciously, nearly breaking it off in the lock. He felt the tumblers turn, and the door fell open, and he was running up the steep, twisting stairs in the dark. The dogs could hear him coming and were whining.

He got to the narrow landing and turned the knob to the small door; he didn't know what he would've done if it had been locked, for he had no idea where the key to this door would be. The dogs fell out on top of George, practically knocking him back down the dangerous stairs he'd just climbed, and he knew they didn't need to be told to go to Scout. He just followed them.

Bandit and Jess tore down to the ground floor, and George found the reason why the house was so cold: Every window and door was wide open. Any hope he had that Scout was safe in one of the rooms was dashed when Jess and Bandit ran straight through the lounge, past the log and rug he and Scout had carried out to the terrace just hours before and out to the path that led to the cliffs.

The dogs were soon out of sight, but George didn't call them back, hoping irrationally that maybe they could help her once they reached her, heedless of the fact that he was shirtless and barefoot and probably couldn't do anything himself, even if he could find her in the near darkness.

"Jess? Bandit? Scout?" He called from time to time, trying to find them. Bandit answered him, so at least he knew he was going in the right direction.

It was a brutally cold night, much colder than it had been the night before. The wind howled over the cliffs, and he could hear the waves booming against the rocks on the beach below. The spray was so strong he could taste the salt in the mist that hit his face.

How long had Scout been out in this? And why?

"Scout? Scout?" he called desperately.

And through this all was the twisting feeling in his heart, the knowing he'd had, all along, that it was his fault.

He could no longer feel his feet, but in a way this was good, because they no longer hurt. He kept going. The golf links were to his right, and he could hear the wind whistling even louder than before. Somewhere up ahead he heard Jess' excited bark. She'd found something.

George peered through the wet fog, trying to see.

He could just make out a slender, vulnerable shape, swaying at the very edge of the headland.

Scout.

Both dogs were standing a cautious ten feet or so behind her, looking at her, looking back at George from time to time. He called them, and they came to him immediately.

"Good dogs, very good," he praised them quietly, and they went behind him but remained standing, tense and alert, waiting to see what might be needed.

Scout was standing facing the sea, the wind and spray blowing her hair straight back from her face. Her pajamas were of course drenched and clung to her, and even from where he stood, George could see how much she was shivering.

"Scout?" he called cautiously.

She made no indication that she heard him. Her shaking hands hung limply at her sides.

"Scout, darling, what are you doing?" he tried. He took a few quiet steps toward her, trying to stay behind her. The dogs followed him.

Again, she ignored him completely.

George took another step, but his cold, numb feet betrayed him, and he slipped and nearly fell, startling Scout, who looked over her shoulder. He could see her eyes in the reflected moonlight, and they were wide and terrified and blank. She did not recognize him.

She took a slippery step toward the edge of the rock.

"No!" George shouted desperately, holding his hands out to her.

Scout looked out toward the sea once more, squaring her quaking body into the howling wind.

George's heart sank. If the capricious wind shifted even a little bit, she'd be buffeted right off the cliff and dashed onto the rocks below.

His fault.

George closed his eyes. He couldn't let this happen. He took a deep breath.

Don't talk to her, George, don't startle her. Just walk to her quietly. Just go. The wind will cover any noise you make. Don't think about it, just do it.

He made his hands into fists, then forced himself to relax and open them. He let his breath out, and began walking toward Scout. When he was three or four paces away, she took another step toward the drop-off, and he abandoned caution and leapt at her, grasping at her waist.

Scout fought him, surprisingly strong, kicking and twisting in his arms as he pulled her back from the cliff's edge. As he turned her, he again saw her eyes reflected in the moonlight, and he saw that same, terrifying blankness in them. They fell down together on the ground, and the dogs were on top of them, pinning them, keeping them from rolling in any dangerous direction. Scout was making frightening, keening noises as well, noises that made the hairs on the back of George's neck stand up.

He pinned her to the cold ground, straddling her, and slapped her, as hard as he could bring himself to, which wasn't very hard at all, murmuring, "Sorry, so sorry, darling," as he did it, pulling her limp, rag doll body up to hug her right after.

"Oh Jesus, what's happening?" he asked the indifferent, freezing night, glancing around as he held her lifeless body close, a sob escaping him as he stroked her soaking wet hair. Her hands fell to the ground behind her.

George rose, feeling like he was carrying a life-sized doll as he staggered back to the house. He was terrified. The dogs followed in his wake, tails and ears low to the ground.

He could feel when Scout regained consciousness in his arms, how her spine firmed up, how her head sat up on her neck and shoulders.

"George?"

"Shh, don't try to talk, darling," he said breathlessly. "Nearly home, okay?"

They entered the lounge they'd vacated mere hours before, and he carefully laid her on the couch. He shut the French doors and went around the room, shutting all the windows, sealing up the room before removing the screen and quickly building a fire.

By the time he was finished, Scout was sitting up in her sodden pjs, watching him.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Shh, just going to call for an ambulance," he said.

"No, George, hold on, please," she said. "Come here, just sit and talk to me before you call anyone, please?"

He looked at her, phone in his hand. "You could be really hurt," he said worriedly. "I'd rather call first, then we can talk," he coaxed.

Scout shook her head. "I honestly don't need an ambulance," she said firmly. "I mean, after what happened out here today, if we have an ambulance come out again, you know the police will come, then there's no way we can keep it out of the papers, because of who you are, you know? Then it'll be a big thing? Neither one of us wants that, right?" She looked at him appealingly. "Wouldn't you rather make me a nice cup of tea?" She smiled.

He looked at her with narrowed eyes. "You wouldn't be trying to take advantage of the fact that I'm an Englishman, would you?" he asked with a tiny smile, and she knew she'd won, for the moment, at least.

"Just go make me some tea, and you can tell me what happened, okay?" she reiterated with a smile of her own.

She lay back with her eyes closed and tried to stop shivering while he was gone, and also tried to remember what happened. The last thing she remembered was falling asleep in bed upstairs, tired and blissfully happy to be with George at last.

How had she ended up drenched and outside, being carried to the house by George in the middle of the night?