The sound of her voice carries then is swallowed by the push and pull of the jet dark, bitter cold water. It isn't quiet, it isn't still, but even the nearby lights of the stepped city seem remote. A frigid wind blows across the waterway. There is no call in return and no sign at all of the griffon.

There is, however, one of the boy: surfacing now with a gasp of air some distance to Kitty's left before a new wave slaps him in the face. He disappears again with a ragged gurgle.