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been offered. It was odd, he thought. Just the previous night—wrought up with anticipation and nerves—he'd barely been able to touch his dinner. Indeed, Samantha had been a bit put out at the manner in which he merely picked at her fine sole amandine. She'd taken his lack of appetite personally, and while his father had leered about a man having other appetites to take care of, Sam, and wasn't their Julie about to do just that with we-all-know-who this very night, Samantha had pressed her lips together and cleared the table.
    He'd have been able to do justice to one of her table-groaning breakfasts now, Julian thought. But as it was … Well, it didn't seem right to think about food—let alone to ask for it—despite the fact that the paying guests in Maiden Hall would be tucking into everything from cornflakes to kippers within the half hour.
    He needn't have worried about the propriety in hoping for food under the circumstances, however. When he walked into the kitchen of Maiden Hall, a plate of scrambled eggs, mushrooms, and sausage sat untouched before Nan Maiden. She offered it to him the moment she saw him, saying, “They want me to eat, but I can't. Please take it. I expect you could do with a meal.”
    They were the early kitchen staff: two women from the nearby village of Grindleford who cooked in the mornings when the sophisticated culinary efforts of Christian-Louis were as unnecessary as they would be unwanted.
    “Bring it with you, Julian.” Nan put a cafeti`re on a tray with coffee mugs, milk, and sugar. She led the way into the dining room.
    Only one table was occupied. Nan nodded at the couple who'd placed themselves in the bay window overlooking the garden, and after politely inquiring about their night's sleep and their day's plans, she joined Julian at the table he'd chosen some distance away by the kitchen door.
    The fact that she never wore make-up put Nan at a disadvantage. Her eyes were troughed by blue-grey flesh. Her skin, which was lightly freckled from time spent on her mountain bicycle when she had a free hour in which to exercise, was otherwise completely pallid. Her lips—having long ago lost the natural blush of youth—bore fine lines that began beneath her nose and were ghostly white. She hadn't slept; that much was clear.
    She had, however, changed her clothes from the night before, apparently knowing that it would hardly do for the proprietress of Maiden Hall to show up to greet her guests in the morning wearing what she'd worn as their hostess at dinner on the previous night. So her cocktail dress had been replaced by stirrup trousers and a tailored blouse.
    She poured them each a cup of coffee and watched as Julian tucked into the eggs and mushrooms. She said, “Tell me about the engagement. I need something to keep from thinking the worst.” When she spoke, tears caused her eyes to look glazed, but she didn't weep.
    Julian made himself mirror her control. “Have you heard from Andy?”
    “Not back yet.” She circled her hands round her mug. Her grip was so tight that her fingers—their nails habitually bitten to the quick—were bleached of colour. “Tell me something about the two of you, Julian. Please.”
    “It's going to be all right.” The last thing Julian wanted to force upon himself was having to concoct a scenario in which he and Nicola fell in love like ordinary human beings, realised that love, and founded upon it a life together. He couldn't face attempting that lie at the moment. “She's an experienced hiker. And she didn't go out there unprepared.”
    “I know that. But I don't want to think about what it means that she hasn't come home. So tell me about the engagement. Where were you when you asked her? What did you say? What kind of wedding will it be? And when?”
    Julian felt a chill at the double direction Nan's thoughts were taking. In either case, they brought up subjects he didn't want to consider. One set led him to dwell upon the unthinkable. The