(James Vellaroux POV)
The cairn was exactly what she had promised: a pile of rocks, waist high, below the crest at the far end of the approved ground.
Sophie climbed onto it before either of our guards could object, faced back along the ridge toward the lookout, and waved with both arms.
"She can't see you," I said.
"How do you know?"
"Because I can't see her."
Sophie turned and looked properly. Where the platform should have been, there was only the shoulder of the ridge, a long fold of dry grass and stone between us and the lookout.
"Oh," she said. "The schedule's lying."
"The schedule's lying."
"She'll be so pleased."
She would be. Elizabeth enjoys being right more than anyone I know, and she is right more often than anyone deserves to be. Somewhere on the other side of that fold, she was probably writing it across the map in capitals.
Sophie waved anyway, on principle.
The whistle came over the fold while she was still waving.
One long call.
