The next morning was grey and lowering, one of those bridge days between autumn and winter, with neither the soft charm of the former nor the brittle beauty of the latter. The air was heavy and damp, the light dulled, with a listlessness pervading the atmosphere. Despite the dourness of the day, Carlee and I were in high spirits, brought closer by our long talk of the previous evening and driven by a renewed sense of purpose.

"So then," she said, her hand rested on my arm, "are we ready to do this?"

"Yeah."

"Sure?"

"Sure." I was, in truth, anything but sure. It had all seemed straightforward the night before, a simple mission to the Hallow Road to solve the mystery, as if simply the act of going there would be sufficient - but the morning gloom, insistent and heavy, easily fractured such feeble certainty.

"Don't worry, babe, it'll be cool. Carlee's with you. I'll make sure everything's okay." Dear Carlee, she could see through my ragged pretence at confidence - she always could. I smiled, nervously but honestly, and gathered my outdoor clothing, ready to face the November chill. As we set out, I noticed with satisfaction that Carlee led the way. The Hallow Road had been for so long my solitary love that it felt liberating to be exploring it with another person: it meant it had become a shared passion, our own secret, and a secret which made us more intimate.

In truth, my feelings for Carlee were very confused. Without question, we had become more intimate during our visit, the sights and memories of my childhood drawing us together in a charming and unhurried manner. Ostensibly, nothing had happened since the appearance of Jane to alter that - we hadn't argued and there was no reason why we should act differently with one another; and yet, I couldn't avoid the notion that there was something between us, an indefinable barrier which prevented my total immersion in the love of Carlee. It was as though, when I thought of her, another impression - too quick to grasp or even remember - flitted through my mind first and then disappeared, leaving only the faint echo of uncertainty in its wake; and this uncertainty, whose root could neither be traced nor understood, made it all the more insidious.

But perhaps I was analysing too much; perhaps I was simply impatient and expecting advances in our relationship which only time could bring. As we walked down the gentle hill towards the bridge, Carlee slid her hand against mine, her finger slowly tracing along the line of my knuckle. Neither of us spoke, but the sweetness of the atmosphere was delightful. How could anything be wrong?

"Milden Grange," I said, pointing to a large Victorian mansion to our left, splendid in its seclusion on the river bank. "My grandmother used to work there as a serving maid. Back in the twenties, this would be. Old Mr Baxter owned it - he was a local businessman, something to do with the mill, I think. He was still alive when I was a girl - must have been about a hundred, I suppose. My gran used to start work at five in the morning - her first chore every day was to light the fires in the bedrooms and dining room - and she didn't finish until eight at night. Every night - she only ever got about one day off a month."

"Jeez, what a life."

"I know. And the work was so physical. I guess that's what we don't understand nowadays. Everything took so long - even little jobs were so difficult. Things like ironing, for example - you couldn't just plug the damned thing in and let it heat up. But even so, Milden Grange was the lap of luxury, back then. First house in town to get electricity, apparently. Even my gran, just because she worked there, got some kudos from that. People used to ask her about it, like it was something magical - ask her to describe how it worked. She used to bring me out this way for walks and show me the house and tell me about it. She even took me in one day. I guess I was probably nagging her about it, trying to find out more. Don't remember that much about it, really, but I do remember that the rooms were huge - enormous ceilings which seemed so far away, and all ornately decorated. And there was a fantastic central staircase, running up two flights, incredibly grand. Ahhh 3; I always wanted to own that house."

Carlee laughed. "How did I guess that? And don't try to tell me it was just because of the grand staircases." She pointed past the house, across the gentle sloping lawn to the river and beyond, where civilisation ended and nature began. A clutch of silver birch trees, their leaves browned and failing, obscured the distance, but as they shivered in the breeze the clear outline of a path, narrow and steep, could be seen. That path would meander through a clutch of poppy fields and under two viaducts, into boggy marshland and over open ground, at times shadowing the river, at others completely losing it, until finally, about a mile upstream, the two converged once more and the path broadened into a majestic, natural avenue.

And at that point it became the Hallow Road.

I smiled. Carlee was right, of course. This was the nearest house, apart from the Ripley House itself, to the Hallow Road, and it overlooked the river as it flowed down towards it - it was almost inevitable that I would have felt an attraction.

We stood on the bridge and looked down. Twenty-five feet below us flowed the river, bloated by recent rains, but nonetheless crisp and precious, its sonorous ripple ringing clear in the muffled grey of the day. Rising in the Chertsey Hills, some twelve miles distant, it rolled steadily through the Renton valley and on - on into the Vale of Barnett, where it joined forces with the Tarbet River and flowed, fast and faithful, into the waiting sea. How long did it take, I often wondered, that journey from source to sea? The water streamed past, like a pulse of life, rippling and waving over rocks and stones, and as I watched I tried to capture it, to follow its flow. I steadied my gaze on a frothy wave as it bounced against a rock, and attempted to track its progress downstream; but every time, just as I thought I had it fixed, I would lose it as it melded once more into the velvet perfection of the flow. So many billion droplets of water, each unique but still identical, unified by the course of nature, the flux of time.

The day before, as we walked through the park, I had picked up a pine cone from one of the giant firs and put it in my pocket. I pulled it out and tossed it over the bridge, and we watched as it fell to the river. It sank into the shallows and bobbed up again, seeming to halt for an instant, frozen in time as though holding its breath in readiness for the onslaught, before being gathered up by the current and propelled downstream towards the Hallow Road.

"See you down there," I shouted at its retreating form and clasped Carlee's hand. "Ready?"

"Sure am, babe, let's go."

I often wonder, if I knew then what I know now, whether at that point we would have carried on or returned home.

By now there was a steady thrum of raindrops, but with the persistent damp in the air it was difficult to tell exactly when it had started: it was a day resigned to rain. Underfoot, the carpet of rotting leaves, richly fragrant and redolent of autumn's passing, lurked in wait for the unsuspecting foot, and we slithered down the slope to the riverside, hands raised in the air for balance and shrieking girlishly. I was convinced I would lose my balance and fall over in the wet slime of the leaves, but the passage became easier when we finally reached level ground, by the river's edge, and twenty minutes later we found ourselves, once more, at the entrance to the Hallow Road.

The fluttering of my stomach betrayed my sense of anticipation, but I had no idea, then, what a momentous visit this would prove to be. We walked slowly, the rain cold and sly, but the imperfection of the day seemed only to highlight the beauty of the surroundings. Carlee released my hand and ran towards the line of beech trees. Carefully, her head bent in concentration, she dragged her leg along the ground, gathering in front of her a mountain of leaves. Stiff legged, she pressed forward, sweeping up autumn's residue and clearing a trail in her wake.

"Careful!" I cautioned. "I used to get into such trouble for that. Every Sunday in autumn I used to do it, along the kerbs on the way to church. And every time, without fail, I ended up getting dog mess on my best Sunday shoes. My mother used to go mad. She'd try and wipe it off, yelling at me all the time for being so stupid - again! - but she could never manage to get rid of it all. And so, all the way through Sunday school, you had this hideous damned smell. It was worst when you had to bow your head to pray. To this day, whenever I hear the Lord's Prayer I still think of dog shit."

Carlee grinned. "That's probably blasphemy, babe."

"Yeah, probably. 'Thy kingdom hums 3;'"

"'Give us this day our daily bread and lead us not into dog shit...'"

"Now, that's certainly blasphemy."

We laughed, but despite our levity I think both of us still felt an element of trepidation; and the further we walked the heavier it lay on us. The answer is at the Hallow Road, we had concluded the night before. But what was it? And how would we find it? And - just as pertinently - what would we do if we didn't find it? We continued, enjoying the occasional respite from the rain afforded by the canopy of beeches, but always the dampness in the air seemed oppressive, and with every passing minute our mission seemed increasingly futile. Despite myself, my confidence dwindled: not even Carlee's presence could provide sufficient uplift for my spirits.

Until the most beautiful thing happened.

We stood on one of the sandy beaches, halting beside the giant stone blackened by generations of barbecues and family picnics, and watched the river roll round a gentle bend. Above us, framed by trees on either bank, a circlet of sky was visible, matted with clouds, grey and heavy. Suddenly, from the east, it cleared into a fragile blue, almost translucent, delicate beyond words, and the merest sliver of sunshine threaded down, varnishing the river's surface with golds and silvers. It alighted on the water like a halo and instantly fragmented, the current trailing it downstream in myriad slender trails, sidewinding into eternity. The wind dropped, the trees fell quiet and only the aspirated chopping of the water broke the silence.

I slid my arm around Carlee's waist and pulled her towards me, knowing that we had to be together at this moment. She pressed her body against mine and we stood and watched the beauty of nature, cheek to cheek, exalting in the power of the Hallow Road. It seemed to be a moment made for us, an unforgettable image and a mesmerising passage which had been created - perhaps - to assuage our fears. In all my childhood years, walking along these banks, the river never seemed as magnificent as it did then, nor more personal. With my love by my side, it was our own private dawn - an epiphany, no less; and it seemed to me to herald the union of Carlee, the river and me.

But we were not alone.

Through the tree-shaded darkness of the path that tracked behind us, spiking from the Hallow Road towards the Creggan estates, came a shimmering figure. Carlee spotted it first and wordlessly squeezed my waist, drawing my attention to it. We turned and watched as the figure emerged into the gentle sunlight, walking steadily towards us, across rough, scrubby ground and down to the level of the river bank. Stepping gingerly onto the sandy beach the figure faltered, steadying itself, leaning against a stick, then straightened up and approached us. My heart pounded, my mind racing.

Jane.

Her black hair was sumptuous, rolling round her face in plump waves, making her at once girlish and sensuous. A shy smile lit her face, her lips pouting and pale, eyes dark, bright and alive. She wore a simple dress and shoes, and nothing else, her milk white arms exposed to the cold and a simple necklace, in the shape of a key, resting coyly against her breast bone. She took my hand and I was surprised to feel hers warm and soft. Our fingers interlinked, pointing to the sky, and she brushed her right hand across my cheek, her fingernails grazing lightly across my cold skin. I felt a deep-rooted sense of joy, more powerful than anything I had ever experienced, as I stood hand in hand with the two people most dear to me - here, in the most precious place on earth. I knew instantly that this was a momentous occasion, and I knew it for one simple reason: for the first time, Jane had shown herself to someone other than me. Tears fell down my cheek as I savoured the moment.

"Hello Harriet," she said, smiling.

"Hello, Jane."

"And hello, Carlee. It's nice to meet you." Jane turned and bent towards Carlee, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

"Jane," replied Carlee huskily. "I'm honoured to meet you. Harriet has told me everything about you." Carlee wore a loose smile, one which hid her uncertainty behind a mask of good humour. I knew she was curious, and I couldn't help but suppose she might be slightly jealous. I hoped not, and I prayed that my two loves could share my excitement.

"Carlee, the pleasure is mine, I assure you. Thank you for coming. I think you're here to help us."

For an instant, Carlee's smile faltered. I barely registered it, and anyone less familiar with her may not have noticed at all. Regaining her composure, she turned to Jane. "Hope I can be of service, ma'am."