Or rather, it was trespassing, but it was trespassing in pursuit of a duck that didn't belong to the property owner, which felt like a distinct and defensible category. The meadow was damp with morning dew, and smelled of freshly turned earth and something sharp and green she'd never encountered in London. The path along the stream was perfectly fine if one kept to the higher bank, which she did, walking swiftly in the direction of water, where Dioynes tended to arrange himself when given choices. She found him at the pond. Alifford's private pond was nothing like Hullbrooks.
Hullbrooks was a cheerful, muddy affair with reeds, three opinionated moorhens, and a general air of having simply evolved rather than been designed. Alifford's pond was deliberate. It had been constructed to precise dimensions, edged with flat limestone, and surrounded by willows that drooped in that particular fashion, suggesting a long acquaintance with sorrow. The water was remarkably still and clear, reflecting the October sky like a painting. Dioynes floated in the middle, arranged with the profound satisfaction of a philosopher who has located the ideal spot for reflection, and sees no reason to reconsider.
Felicity stood at the edge observing him. The pond was roughly five feet deep at its center. Dioynes was sitting in approximately two and a half feet of water, which was navigable but wet. The bank offered no obvious footholds for an approach that might result in retrieving a duck while remaining dry. A long willow branch curved over the water and might, with creative application, serve as a herding tool, but Dioynes had proven specifically resistant to herding since July.
Bread worked. She had no bread. She stood and pondered this for about forty seconds. Then she removed her half boots, placing them neatly on the limestone edge with the resigned tidiness of someone about to do something entirely sensible who desires at least one element of the situation to be organized. She then removed her stockings, tucked them inside the boots, and stepped into the pond.
The cold was immediate and absolute. This was October in Wiltshire, and she had known the water would be cold, much as one knows a plunge will be cold before taking it. That is to say, she knew it perfectly well, and the knowledge helped less than one might hope. The mud at the bottom squelched between her toes, and the water climbed her calves, then her knees. Dioynes watched her approach with the expression of a creature that has lived among humans long enough to find them philosophically interesting, but not particularly surprising.
He paddled two feet further toward the center. Felicity stopped and re-evaluated. The pond floor sloped. She estimated she was about thigh deep in her current position, and moving forward would only make matters considerably worse. She was already holding her skirts up with both hands, which limited her strategic options.