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fed to the waiting lions.
    *   *   *
    A few days after my trip to the museum, a thick cream envelope appeared in the hallway of our cottage. I’d been having my tea at the kitchen table, studiously using my Italian-American dictionary to look up the words I didn’t understand in that day’s local paper, when I heard a rustling and saw the letter shoot under the door. I’d only been in my new home four days, so, not expecting it to be for me, I didn’t bother to look at it until some time later. When I saw my name, I hurriedly ripped it open, peering out the window. But by then, of course, the courier was long since gone.
Dearest Tabitha Deacon:
You are cordially invited to be a part of the highly exclusive, top secret Brit Four Society. I’ll explain later, but for now please trust that it’s nothing weird or pervy. Really, we’ll have loads of fun. Meet us at the corner table of Nido d’Aquila at seven o’clock tonight. Wear something nice but not too whorey.
xxoo
    I could hardly suppress my excitement. Obviously, the invitation couldn’t be from anyone but Jenny Cole.
    It takes being away from one’s self to be a fair judge of one’s own qualities. The truth is, while I was a friendly enough girl, I was never what you would have called “magnetic.” I’d always done fine; I had some friends once I got to uni, I had my cousins and sister, and, of course, I always had Babs. But I was never exactly the center of things. Now, looking at the note again, my hands trembled with anticipation. Perhaps if I behaved properly, I wouldn’t have to spend my year in Italy suffering through Marcy’s company or shuffling about Grifonia alone. That afternoon, I showered and put on a rather prim shirt and jeans and some silver earrings my sister, Fiona, had passed down to me, and then I took the three-minute walk up to the pub.
    It was a typical Enteria bar, Nido d’Aquila: a long, narrow space packed with loud foreign students. A bit nicer, perhaps, than the other expatriate establishments—cleaner and brighter, for one thing. But there was no pretense of its being a real Italian place. The walls were covered with photos of foreign students holding up shot glasses and brimming steins of Guinness, and there was no Italian anywhere on the menu. On Wednesday nights, the bar hosted a fully amped American karaoke night on the back veranda that was, by all accounts, the scourge of the entire north side of town.
    The rest of the girls were already there, right out front at the bar’s most coveted outside table. You could see everyone coming up the street from there, and, more to the point, everyone could see you. As a threesome, they were—as my mother would say— certainly worth looking at. Jenny had on a sundress that made the most of her ample chest and shoulders. She was at the head of the table, her ever-present designer bag beside her. On her left was the redhead, very thin, with skin the color of a marble bust and watery blue eyes. She was attractive but slightly sickly looking, as if she might be suffering from a permanent cold. To Jenny’s right was the black girl I’d seen. She was the most classically beautiful girl of the group, body coiled and tight, with cheekbones that seemed to soar off either side of her face and amber eyes that scanned the street with detached interest. All three were dressed in lovely clothes, not the cheap frocks or tight pants I’d seen hanging on the doors of the shops on the smaller streets, but beautiful things—loose, knee-length tunics of silk and linen, glinting with embroidery and accented with delicate, expensive belts.
    “Ladies, meet Tabitha,” said Jenny, looking up with an efficient smile and sliding a glass to me. “Also a Nottingham girl. And our final member to arrive.” She winked. “What you need to know about her is that she is always late.”
    “How do you know that?” I asked.
    “It’s in the dossier. Anyhow, it’s a sin, one we’ll have to beat out