Elizabeth, distracted from her constant preoccupation with herself for a moment, stared at her in disapproval. "You're not really going to eat that, are you, dear? It's loaded with calories.'

Emily grinned. "Of course I am. I'm ravenous."

"You know, you must watch your weight, Emily. You've - always had a tendency to get plump very quickly, ever since you were a child."

"I'll starve myself when we get home."

Elizabeth shook her head in exasperation, but knowing it was useless to argue, she remarked, "Did you

notice Marc flirting with that French countess at the party last night?"

"No, 1 can't say I did. But he flirts with everyone. Mother. He can't help it, and it doesn't mean anything, I'm sure. I wish you'd relax about that man. He's lucky to have you."

"And I'm most fortunate to have him. He's very good to me, the best husband I've had, if you want to

know the truth."

Emily doubted this, and before she could stop herself, she exclaimed, "What about Daddy? He waswonderful to you. It's a pity you ever left him.""Naturally you're prejudiced about Tony. He ts your father. But you have no conception of how it was between us, dear. Latterly, I mean. You were only a small child. Anyway, I don't propose to start regurgitating all the details of my first marriage with you, Emily, picking it over and examining it under a microscope."

"T hat's very wise of you," Emily said with acerbity and munched on the roll, conscious they were touching on an explosive subject.

Elizabeth gave her daughter a sharp look, but she, too, sagely held her tongue. She poured herself another cup of coffee and lit a cigarette, sat observing Emily, thinking now pretty she looked this morning in her emerald green sweater and pants. They intensified the color of her eyes. After almost two weeks in the French Alps, her hair was a lighter, brighter blond and her delicate face had the hint of a suntan. Elizabeth was suddenly glad that she and Marc had accepted Daisy's invitation to join them at the chalet they had rented. She had enjoyed being with her children and she had derived a great deal of satisfaction from Marc's attentiveness to them, especially to Amanda and Francesca.

Between bites, Emily said, "I think I'll go into the town later. I need to buy a few things."

"That's a good idea," Elizabeth remarked. "And perhaps you'll drop me off at the hairdresser's, darling."

Emily burst out laughing. "You don't need your hair done, Mummy. You were there yesterday."

"Now, Emily, let's not get into a long discussion about my hair. You paddle your canoe and /'// paddle mine."

"Okay. Leaning forward, Emily propped her elbows on the table and continued: "1 have a vague remembrance of Amanda and Francesca's barging into our room at some unG.o.dly hour this morning and smothering Winston and me with kisses. I a.s.sume Alexander dragged them off to Geneva - screaming at the top of their lungs, no doubt."

Elizabeth nodded. "They were rather obstreperous. Neither of them seems to like the finishing school on Lake Geneva, and I can't imagine why. But they settled down when they knew Daisy was going to Geneva with them. She wanted to do some shopping and decided to go along with Alexander. They're planning to take the girls to lunch at the Hotel Richemond before returning them to the school. I do love that hotel, Emily, and in fact I promised the twins I'd fly up to Geneva from Paris at Easter to spend a few days with them." Elizabeth had a sudden thought, and it brought a warm smile to her face. "Why don't you and Winston join Marc and me, as my guests at the Richemond? It would be fun, Emily."

Pleasantly surprised at this unprecedented gesture, Emily said, "That's a lovely thought, Mother, and very kind of you to invite us. Ill ask Winston and let you know later." Emily reached out, her hand hovering over another croissant.

"Please don't eat that, darling!"

Looking slightly shamefaced, Emily pulled back. "Yes, you're right. They are awfully fattening." Emily rose. "I think I'd better go upstairs and get ready to go into the town. I know if I sit here chatting with you I'll demolish that entire plate."

"I'll come up too," Elizabeth said. "I want to change."

Emily groaned. "You look perfectly gorgeous, Mummy. You don't have to bother . . . you're only going to the hairdresser's."

"One never knows whom one might meet," Elizabeth countered. Glancing at her watch, she added, "It's not quite eleven. I'll only be half an hour. 1 promise."

To Emily's relief, her mother was true to her word for once, and a few minutes after eleven-thirty she was turning the key in the ignition and pulling away from the chalet. This was located in a small hamlet on the outskirts of Chamonix, the lovely ancient town that nestled at the foot of Mont Blanc. As Emily swung out onto the main road and cruised along at a steady speed, she could not help admiring the extraordinary scenery which never failed to make her catch her breath.

The Valley of Chamonix, bounded on one side by the Mont Blanc range and on the other by the Aiguilles Rouges chain, was like a natural platform from which to view the highest peak of Europe. And now, as Emily peered ahead at Mont Blanc and the surrounding mountains, she could not help feeling overawed by their grandeur and majesty. Their glittering snow-covered pinnacles thrust up into a high-flung sky that was a clear cerulean blue, filled with white puffball clouds and brilliant sunshine.

As though reading her daughter's thoughts, Elizabeth exclaimed, "Impressive, isn't It, Emily! And it's such a glorious day."

"Yes," Emily agreed. "I bet our skiing enthusiasts are happy as larks, enjoying themselves on the slopes." She glanced at her mother through the comer of her eye. "By the way, did Marc go with Uncle David and the others?"

"Yes, and Maggie."

"Oh," Emily said, surprised. "I thought she was driving to Geneva with Alexander.'

"She wanted to go skiing instead, make the most of it, I suppose,'since they're leaving tomorrow for London."

"Jan and Peter are traveling back with them, so Jan told me last night," Emily remarked, referring to the only nonfamily members who were houseguests of her aunt and uncle.

"I tried to persuade them to stay on for a few days longer," Elizabeth explained. "1 rather like them, and he's such a charmer."

"Peter Coles! Honestly, Mummy, you do have funny tastes. I think he's a crashing bore. So pompous." Emily giggled. "But he is especially attentive to you, and I've seen Marc give him more than one filthy look during the ten days they've been here. 1 do believe the old Frog is as jealous as h.e.l.l."

"Please don't refer to Marc as an old Frog, darling, it's a very unkind description and most inappropriate," Elizabeth chastised. Then she laughed with sudden gaiety. "So you think Peter makes Marc jealous. That's nice to know. Mmmm."

"Very." Emily smiled to herself, realizing how happy this bit of irrelevant information made her mother feel. But maybe it wasn't so irrelevant to her. The poor woman was dotty about Marc Deboyne. That snake in the gra.s.s, Emily thought. She detested him and wouldn't trust him as far as she could throw him.

Elizabeth now launched into a glowing recital about her new husband's manifold qualities, and Emily nodded and made small agreeable sounds, as if concurring. But she was only half-listening. Her mother was quite irritating when she went on and on about him in this ridiculous way, and Emily was pleased when she saw the town of Chamonix looming immediately ahead.

* After leaving the Citroen in the parking lot, Emily and her mother walked briskly down one of the main boulevards, heading in the direction of the small square where the hair-dressing salon was situated. When they arrived at its door, Emily said, "How long will you be?"

"Oh, just about an hour, dear. I'm only having a comb-out. Why don't you meet me at that little bistro over there at the other side of the square. We'll have an aperitif before going back to the chalet for lunch."

"All right. Bye, Mummy."

Emily sauntered leisurely around the square, glancing in the shop windows. She only had a few things to buy and an hour to waste, so she took her time. After traversing the entire square, she continued down the boulevard, making for a boutique that sold highly original apres ski clothes, and went inside. The sales a.s.sistants knew her and she wasted twenty minutes chatting to them and trying on evening tops, none of which she liked enough to buy.

Back on the street, Emily wandered down to the pharmacy, purchased the small items she needed, tucked them in her shoulder bag, and left the shop. Slowly she retraced her steps, remembering she wanted to pick up some picture postcards to send to friends in England.

To her astonishment Emily saw Marc Deboyne coming toward her. He was hurrying, looked deeply preoccupied, and he had obviously not seen her.

As they drew level with each other, Emily said archly, "Fancy meeting you, Marc. Mummy thinks you've gone skiing."

Marc Deboyne, caught off guard, was both startled and embarra.s.sed. Quickly recovering his equilibrium, he exclaimed, "Ah, Emilee, Emilee, my dear," and caught hold of her arm, squeezed it affectionately. He added, in his Gallic-accented but perfect English, "I changed my mind. I decided to go for a walk. I have a headache."

Leaning into him, Emily said pointedly, "It's not the only thing you have, Marc. You've also got lipstick on the neck of your sweater."

His smile was indulgent but his eyes reproved, and then he chuckled. "Emilee, what are you implying? It's undoubtedly your mother's lipstick."

Ignoring this remark, she said, "Mummy's having her hair done. I'm meeting her at the bistro opposite for a drink. At one o'clock. She'll be disappointed if you don't join us." Emily's tone was all sweetness. Her eyes were chips of green ice.

"I would not disappoint Elizabeth. I shall meet you there. Ciao, Emilee." He gave an odd little salute and moved on, walking at the same rapid pace.

Emily stared after him, watched him as he crossed the road and cut down a side street. She wondered where he was going. b.a.s.t.a.r.d, she thought. I bet he was having a quickie with that ghastly countess from the party last night, who is no more of a Frenchwoman than I am. Filled with dislike for him, Emily grimaced in distaste and turned on her heels, marching up the street in search of a newspaper shop. She found one within minutes and browsed for a while, flipping through the latest magazines, still endeavoring to pa.s.s the time. Finally peeking at her watch she saw that it was almost one o'clock, almost time to meet her mother. Stepping up to the metal rack holding cards of Chamonix, she selected four and went to pay for them.

Putting the cards and the change in her shoulder bag, Emily smiled at the woman behind the counter.

"Merci, madame."

The woman started to respond and then stopped abruptly, c.o.c.king her head. At that precise moment there was a sudden, extraordinary rumbling sound that rent the air around them and increased to thunderous and deafening proportions within the s.p.a.ce of a split second.

Emily shouted, "That sounds like a terrible explosion."

The woman gaped at her through terrified eyes, screamed back, "No! Avalanche!" She swung her plump body, grabbed the telephone.

Clutching her bag, Emily ran out into the street.

Shop doors were opening and people were emerging, all of them wearing the same frightened expressions, as were the pa.s.sersby.

"Avalanche!" a man cried to Emily and pointed in the direction of Mont Blanc as he sped on down the street.

Emily stood transfixed, mesmerized by the sight. Even from this distance she could see that great fractures boomed across the slopes of Mont Blanc and half the mountainside was rumbling down in a tremendous swath that looked to be hundreds and hundreds of feet across. Gargantuan slabs of snow were hurtling forward, gaining momentum as they tumbled on their precipitous downward journey, sweeping aside all that lay in their path. And rising up into the brilliant blue air were enormous billowing clouds of powdered snow that had been pulverized by the turbulence of the slide into millions of tiny snow-smithereens.

Two police cars, their sirens screaming, raced along the street at breakneck speed. Their high-pitched wails broke the hypnotic spell that had momentarily held Emily in its grip. She blinked several times and then the blood seemed to drain out of her. Winston was up there. Everyone was up there. David. Philip. Jim. Maggie. Jan and Peter Coles.

She began to shake like a leaf and she could not move. Her legs turned to jelly as the fear rushed through her, swamped her, overwhelmed her. "Oh my G.o.d! Winston!" Emily cried out loud. "Winston. Oh G.o.d! No!"

It was as if the sound of her own voice galvanized her. She began to run, racing along the pavement, her head thrust forward, her feet flying over the stones as she ran faster and faster, making for the large cable-car terminal she knew was only a short distance away.

Her heart pounded in her chest, her breathing was labored as she hurled herself on, blinking again, squeezing back the tears that stung her eyes. Oh G.o.d, let Winston be safe. Please let Winston be safe. And the others. Make them alt safe. Oh G.o.d, don't let any of them be dead.

Emily became aware of other running feet, other people pressing around her. Some were outstripping,her as they pounded past. They were also making for the terminal, which was now in her line of vision. A man jostled her as he leapt ahead, and she almost tripped and fell. But she recovered her balance and went on running, her fear propelling her.

She thought her heart was bursting when she finally reached the terminal. Only then did Emily slow down and come to a standstill, gasping for breath. She pressed her hand against her heaving chest. Rasping noises emanated from her throat. She leaned against one of the police cars parked near the cable-car depot and fumbled in her shoulder bag. She found her handkerchief, wiped her sweating face and neck, .endeavored to marshal her swimming senses, willed herself to stay calm.

After a few seconds, her breathing was more normal and she straightened up, looked around. Her eyes were frantic as they swept over the crowd that had already gathered in the s.p.a.ce of fifteen minutes.

Emily hoped against hope that Winston had finished skiing before the avalanche had struck, prayed that he was somewhere among the tourists and townspeople milling around. She threw herself into their midst, her eyes darting from side to side, seeking him, her anxiety paramount. Instant dismay lodged in the pit of her stomach. He was nowhere in sight.

Turning away, Emily pressed her hands to her mouth, choking. Terror seized her, held her in a vise. She stumbled back to the police car, leaned against its hood, her heart clenching. How could anyone have survived that avalanche? It hurtled down at such speed and force it would have crushed anything that stood in its way. Emily closed her eyes. She ought to go and speak to someone, ask about rescue teams, but she had no strength. She closed her eyes. She felt her legs slipping and sliding under her as if she had lost all control of her body.

Suddenly two strong arms gripped her, pulled her upright.

"Emily! Emily! It's me."

Her eyes flew open as she was spun around rapidly. It was Winston. She grabbed at his ski jacket, weak with relief, and then her face crumpled as she burst into tears.

Winston held her close, supporting her limp body and soothing her at the same time. "It's all right, it's all right," he kept repeating over and over again.

"Thank G.o.d! Thank G.o.d!" Emily gasped. "I thought you were dead. Oh, Winston, thank G.o.d you're alive." She searched his worried face. "The others?" she began and stopped when she saw his grim expression, the clenched jaw.

"I don't know whether they're safe or not. I hope to G.o.d they are. I pray they are,"- Winston said, putting his arm around her.

"But you-"

Winston interrupted fiercely I didn't go skiing this morning. When I got here I'd just missed a cable car. I waited around for a while, planning to take the next one, but I got fed up. I had a bit of a hangover and I was beginning to feel queasy. So I left, went in to the town. I bought the English papers, stopped at a cafe and had a Fernet Branca. By the time I felt better it was too late to go skiing, so I did a bit of shopping. I was actually in the parking lot, stowing the stuff in the car, when I heard a whoomp that sounded like a blast of dynamite. There was an American parked next to me, and he shouted something about an avalanche, that his daughter was on the slopes, and then he ran like h.e.l.l. I followed him, knowing"-Winston swallowed-"knowing that everybody from the chalet, well, practically everybody, was up there too."

An unexpected feeling of hope soared in Emily. She exclaimed, "Perhaps they decided to ski on that other range."

Winston shook his head. His face was bleak.

Emily grabbed hold of him. "Oh, Winston!"

He calmed her. "Come on, Emily,, you must be strong, very brave-" He broke off and swung his head as he heard his name being called. He spotted Marc Deboyne and Elizabeth running in their, direction and lifted his hand in a wave, looked down at his wife and said, "Your mother and Marc are coming."

Elizabeth almost flung herself at Winston and embraced him, crying. "You're safe, you're safe. I was petrified for you, Winston." She looked .at him through anxious eyes. Her white face was stark, but she was exercising immense control. She hugged Emily, then said, "What about the others, Winston? Have you seen any of the family, or Jan and Peter?"

"No. You see, I didn't go skiing this morning. I changed my mind."

There was a sudden flurry of activity in the area. They all turned around. The rescue teams had arrived, professional skiers wearing backpacks and controlling a number of German shepherds. With them were additional police, a group of French soldiers and town officials.

"I will go and ask a few questions," Marc muttered and strode off purposefully.

Winston exclaimed, "It's stopped! Do you realize the avalanche has stopped."

Elizabeth stared at him. "It stopped when Marc and I were running down here. After that deafening noise the silence was awful, deathly."

Before Winston could reply, Marc was back with them, explaining: "The teams are going up now. They've got the best equipment in those backpacks. Listening devices, probing rods, and the dogs, of course. Let us be hopeful."

"Is there any hope?" Winston asked in a low, intense tone.

Marc hesitated, tempted to lie. But he elected to speak the truth. "It's doubtful," he murmured quietly. "The avalanche must have been traveling at enormous speed, anywhere between one hundred and twenty to two hundred miles per hour . .'. and then there is the force, the weight of the snow. And yet"-he attempted an encouraging smile-"people have been known to live through avalanches and snowslides as bad as this one. It depends where they are on the slopes when it strikes. Those near the bottom would have the best chance, providing they knew to throw away their skis and poles, make swimming motions with their arms. That creates air pockets in front of the face. Even if a person is felled by the snow, it is vital to keep the arms moving in that manner to provide air around the body. People have lived for days under the snow- because they had those air pockets."

Emily said worriedly, "David, Jim, and Philip are experienced skiers, but Maggie-"

Elizabeth suppressed a cry of fear. She gasped. "We must have courage and keep our hopes high. Please don't let's talk so mournfully-it makes me nervous. I must continue to believe that they are all alive."

Marc put his arm around her protectively. "You are right, cherie. We must be positive."

Winston said to Emily, "I think you ought to take your mother over to one of the nearby cafes. Wait there. There's nothing you can do here."

"No!" Emily cried heatedly, glaring at him. "I want to be here with you. Please, Winston."