The river was a maelstrom of freezing, dark water and churning debris. James was instantly disoriented, thrown about like a doll. The cold was a physical agony, a shock that paralyzed his muscles and tightened his chest, making the act of breathing an impossible, desperate need.
He fought the instinct to panic, recalling the meager swimming lessons he'd taken at a rather drafty public bath decades ago. Stay calm. Conserve energy. Float.
But the current was too powerful for elegant floating. It hammered him against submerged rocks and dragged him along the slick, mossy riverbed. The water was pitch black and roaring, filling his ears with a suffocating noise.
He squeezed his eyes shut and focused solely on the one thing he still possessed: the Earl Grey Caddy. He had transferred it from his chest to his iron grip, a connection to reality in the elemental chaos.
The caddy, bless its solid, English-made heart, proved to be an unexpected asset. Its antique metal design—crafted to seal in the volatile oils of bergamot—was, by sheer accident, remarkably watertight. More importantly, its shape gave it a small but significant degree of buoyancy.
James inadvertently used the caddy as an emergency stabilizer. As he was dragged along, he clung to the tin, feeling the chip secure inside, and the slight, subtle lift of the metal tin in the dense water helped him fight the downward pull of the current.
He kicked out blindly, not to swim, but to push away from the deadly riverbank. After what felt like an eternity, he broke the surface for a gasping, freezing breath. He saw only darkness and the faint, star-scattered sky before he was pulled under again.
The agents at the vent grate shouted, their voices tiny and lost above the torrent, but James knew they wouldn't follow. This river was a death trap. He was alone, adrift, and dangerously hypothermic.