The scene was just as before, the water as calm, the sand as hot under her feet. Even the birds flying in the air above were the same, perhaps curious at this new arrival come to interfere with their solitude. And yet it was not the same, because she was different.

Marianne wandered over to their rock. The towel was still draped over it, and she snatched it up and put it to her face, breathing in the scent, desperate to catch something of Willoughby’s aroma. But all she could smell was the sand and the salt of the ocean. Perhaps other bodies had lain on this towel since then. Perhaps there had been other promises, or other whispers of love. She let the towel fall to her feet.

Her heart ached to feel what she had felt before, if only for a moment. Each step was heavier than the last as she sauntered down to the water’s edge. The waves ebbed and flowed gently at her feet, as if trying to bring the comfort she could not feel.

Only Willoughby could bring her that. And he’d betrayed her, in the worst way a man could ever betray a woman. He had taken her heart, given so freely, and he had stomped on it. The pain she felt was real, and it was more than her dryad soul could bear. She put her hand to her face and felt the tell-tale lines of sorrow etched into her flesh. Perhaps her beauty would be gone forever. Well then, so be it. Perhaps to die for love would not be so terrible. Let Willoughby come home and find her broken body on the shore. Maybe then he might feel some remorse.

She sank down at the water’s edge, not caring that the water pooled around her, soaking her ceremonial dress. She just wanted this to be over. The pain. The heartache. All of it. And to sleep. As the waves lapped over her weary body, she closed her eyes and prayed her suffering would end.