After sending Border Patrol to make beds in staff hallways, June Hudson ventures into the floodlit, freezing night to check the bathhouses and the sweetwater, leaving the dachshunds at the front desk. She recalls first seeing the asymmetrical, living architecture of the Avallon and how it called to her.

In Avallon I, the clinical bathhouse with electric cabinets, June tests the soaking pool and senses only ordinary impressions of hotel life—no sign that the water has turned. She considers the holler beliefs she grew up with: the sweetwater rewards or punishes behavior and can ruin a place if it turns. She continues to Avallon II, the Simmer and Soak pools, where grief for Mr. Francis resurfaces alongside memories of his inclusive laugh and his canteen visits that dignified staff.

At Avallon III, lush and sensual among weeping willows, the water offers a rippled memory of June’s rise: reprimands from an old head of housekeeping for being in guest areas, Slater’s refusals to let her work front of house due to her accent, and June’s clandestine elevator training during the “Napkin Raids.” Her aptitude and the water’s rumored favor propelled her from blank silence to a skilled, performative voice. She recalls how Slater later offered a position, but by then she felt the hotel itself called her to larger responsibility.

Debating whether to brave the cold to Avallon IV—the small, stark, oldest-feeling spring with a deep, narrow shaft—June sees headlights and recognizes Edgar David Gilfoyle leaving the family wing. She runs to the circular drive and stops his cream-and-chrome Auburn. In the humid interior, their shared past compresses: childhood closeness, recent estrangement, and the post-funeral night they slept together.

Gilfoyle presents a gift—mink-trimmed, velveteen rubber overboots sized perfectly for June’s Mary Janes—intended to ease her daily walks. As she tries them on, their banter turns intimate; he jokes about calling the switchboard to whisper about her “marvelous body,” and the memory of their night together warms her. June challenges him for attempting to slip away without a goodbye and for treating the hotel like a toy, while she bears the responsibility.

Gilfoyle turns serious, admitting fear of being drafted and hinting he bargained with the State Department—offering up the Avallon for detainees—to stay out of the war. June, connecting this to earlier assurances that men like Francis Gilfoyle mattered to Washington, calls him a Judas and protests that he hid this from her, depriving her of preparation. He insists she is not “the help,” twitches under the pressure as in childhood, and confesses he does not know how to be his father or how to manage her.

Their standoff thaws slightly when June uses Sandy’s old nickname, “Goyle.” He proposes they speak properly away from the hotel when this is over; she agrees only with boundaries—“not with the children watching.” As the dachshunds appear in the headlights, June leaves, accepting the boots but not forgiving him. The exchange closes with Gilfoyle’s earnest, “You know I think the world of you, June,” while she recalls an old ledger’s inscription foretelling her leadership.