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Kit turned and scanned for Muriel. She was trudging with Deighton, heading back toward the hillside, looking from time to time over her shoulder, for him. Hesitation evaporated. He went after her as fast as his feet would allow.

When the three of them arrived at the base of the hill, Deighton addressed the wheelmen, who hadn’t made it farther than the water’s edge. Butterfield and Egg looked to have had a particularly rough way down.

“The boy’s safe.” He fitted his crumpled cap on his head. “We found him.”

Was it the royal we? Or was Deighton crediting the collective effort? Muriel blinked and caught Kit’s eye. He gave a conspiratorial shrug, delighted by the answering twitch of her lips.

“Back to the bikes.” Deighton tucked his chin and pushed between Kemble and Prescott, tackling the hill with long strides. Butterfield looked up toward the hilltop. His face was so vividly expressive of misery, Kit felt the absolutely ludicrous instinct to give him a hug.

“He’s scared of heights.” Kemble sneered.

“I’m not.” Butterfield straightened.

“After you, then.” Kemble bowed and made an ushering motion.

“Ladies first.” Muriel glanced between Kemble and Butterfield. “Mr. Butterfield will come up behind me.” She gave Butterfield a lovely, muddy smile. “Just watch where I step and put your feet in the same place.”

He was too petrified to resent her aid, let alone reject it. He nodded.

“How did you become such a champion stepper?” asked Kemble, later in the climb, when Muriel’s zigzag path had them walking toward each other, at different elevations.

“She’s a botanist and a plant hunter,” snapped Kit, from yet lower on the hillside, annoyed. “She has traveled the world over. Do none of you know that?”

“I know it,” offered Prescott, from behind him.

“I know more,” said Egg, from behind him. “Mrs. Pendrake didn’t tell Prescott about the giant panda.”

Kit was regretting the question.

“She didn’t tell me about the giant panda,” he muttered.

“Please tell us,” said Butterfield fervently. It was clear he’d prefer listening to anything other than the thoughts in his head. He hadn’t looked up from the ground once.

“What’s a giant panda?” Kemble was walking away from Muriel now, scowling. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

Deighton stomped irritated, impatient circles on the brow of the hill as the rest of them finally struggled up to him, talking loudly and longingly of favorite meals. The topic was a non sequitur introduced by Kemble after Muriel concluded the tale of the giant panda, and everyone was hungry enough to find it inexhaustible.

Kemble had launched on a paean to roast duck sauced with brandy, claret, and port, which a hot blue glare from Deighton cut short.

“We can’t ride to Newquay.” Deighton’s hands were in fists. “We won’t even make it to Padstow.” His throat worked above his wilted necktie, as though the next words were hard to get out. “It is decided. We ride inland.”

Kit looked at the sky. The sun still winked through breaks in the clouds, but to the north, a line of thunderheads towered. More weather was coming. And floods likely rendered the coastal paths impassable.

Deighton was using the correct organ. No wonder he was irritated.

Kit opened his mouth to congratulate him, then figured it would do more harm than good and took himself over to the pile of bicycles to see what, if anything, had to be set to rights.

—

All the machines were serviceable, but only barely. The journey to Bodmin was sloppy, slow, and painful. There was flooding there too, in the town center. Overflowing drains. Swamped shops and houses. They chose to lodge on the highest ground, at a former coaching inn, the Travellers Rest, where the red-nosed, white-haired innkeeper ceded the old tack room to their bicycles, then ushered them into the bar.

Night was falling, and the storm had regrouped. Wind raged noisily along the narrow street. There was no roast duck on the menu, so Kemble had to content himself with chicken. Kit savored the warmth more than anything. Wind slicing through damp clothing as he cycled had chilled him to the bone. Deighton spent most of the meal simmering in silence at the head of the table.

“We were supposed to ride to Newquay.” Deighton shoved away his emptied plate, which nearly forced Kit’s plate off the table. “Bude to Padstow to Newquay. That was the plan. And tomorrow, Newquay to Porthtowan to St. Ives. Now we must do it all tomorrow, rain or shine.”

The windows rattled, and a man eating alone in a booth whistled. “Lord, she’s blowing now.”

“We are on a ten-day run.” Deighton crossed his arms, clutching his biceps, revealing fingernails bitten to the quick. He looked supremely ill at ease. “It was printed in the paper. With all the destinations. Everyone in St. Ives is taking bets on whether or not she will complete the run. If none of us do?” His eyelid was twitching again.