But Something was calling to Something, something was calling something to come back.

The call was low, low and strange, so regular and so unbroken and insistent, that it arrested, she knew not what.

Did it arrest the floating and the swaying in the enfolding sea?
Was the drifting slower?
She could not rouse herself to think, she wanted to go on.

Did she no longer feel the water lapping against her lip?
Something was calling to Something still.

Once, aeons ago, before the white sea had borne her away, she would have understood.
"Emily, Emily, Emily!" Yes, once she would have known what the sound meant.