She felt her jeans rubbing damp on her upper thighs and blushed, mortified and simultaneously amazed that she had the energy to care about something as minor as wetting her pants. Her knee hurt like buggery – she must’ve twisted it somehow – and she was panting with exhaustion and pain by the time they reached the top of the low gently sloping hill Bill and Fleur’s house sat atop. There was a little white picket fence around the house, and the gate that Fleur swung open had a little copper plaque that read "Shell Cottage’.