Three days in and she's finally found the swimming pool. To her it makes perfect sense that it's in the library; where else would a pool be? She's floating on the surface, her hair splayed about her head in a luminescent, titian halo, her eyes closed and her body weightless within the embrace of the water, which isn't quite familiar but isn't strange to her, either.
She's not expecting the panicked cry of her name and the startling splash as he launches himself into the pool beside her. Her eyelids shoot open but before she can even lift her head he's scooping her out of the water and hauling her over to the tiled edge, pushing her onto solid ground and spluttering his concerns.
She tells him that she's fine but he doesn't listen, presses his ear to her breast to check her heartbeat and then gets concerned about the red flush that spreads up her neck and across her cheeks. She pushes him back and insists that she's alright, but his blue eyes are so wide and so earnest that she can't help but agree to let him carry her to the hospital wing to make sure there's no water in her lungs.
He doesn't seem to care about the fact that his favourite tweed jacket is probably ruined, just as dripping wet as the rest of him. His dark hair falls in front of his forehead and droplets of water run off his fringe and down his nose, but he doesn't seem to care about those either. All he seems to care about is her.
He tells her she was drowning, repeats it over and over, sounding more terrified each time, and she gets confused because she knows what it is to drown and that certainly wasn't it.
Floating, she corrects him, her lips brushing the side of his neck as he has her cradled in his arms; she was floating.
He raises an eyebrow at her and she immediately wonders what human custom she's missed this time. He shifts one hand beneath her to fluff up the hem of her dress, flipping it up to display her ankle. Apparently you can't float in a dress.
But she couldn't find any seashells, what did he expect her to do?
She feels his laugh before she hears it; it starts as a deep rumble in his chest, works its way up and spills past his lips to blow against the hair on top of her head. He shakes against her and she hooks her arms a little tighter around his neck as her smile spreads into a grin.
He kisses her forehead and murmurs about how she amazes him, and turns back around to return to the library. He throws her unceremoniously into the pool, and she pushes her skirts down, forcing herself back above the surface just in time for him to jump in and almost land on top of her.
He dives under the surface and grabs her ankle, making her squeal; resurfaces and splashes water at her. She splashes back, ignoring the pull of the heavy material she's wearing to lunge towards him. He catches her under the arms and holds her up in front of him, and suddenly she's thinking about how it would feel to kiss him. For one heart stopping moment her eyelids flutter shut and she thinks it's going to happen, that he's going to lean forward and bridge the minuscule gap between them, press his lips to hers – but then he lets her go and she sinks under the surface for just a second.
He's immediately pulling her back up, apologising profusely, saying that his hands just slipped, but the moment is gone and it's a painful recollection of a half-remembered dream, of another man and another time she ended up in water instead of with a kiss. She swipes furiously at her eyes, praying that he mistakes her tears for droplets of pool water.
The downturn of his lips and the shadow that passes over his eyes make her worry that she hasn't fooled him.