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profoundly grateful.
    I stood in the study’s doorway for a moment, listening to Bill commune with his darling daughter, then stepped inside and closed the door behind me. I didn’t want the sound of my voice to distract Bess from her father’s.
    The study was silent, but not entirely still. The breeze that had lifted the Hargreaves horde’s kites continued to stir the strands of ivy that crisscrossed the diamond-paned windows above the old oak desk, causing shadows to dance across the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. I lit the lamps on the mantel shelf, then paused again.
    â€œâ€™Afternoon, Reginald,” I said.
    Reginald was a small, powder-pink flannel rabbit who’d entered my life on the same day I’d entered it. He’d been my confidant and my companion in adventure throughout my childhood and he was still a very good listener. A more mature woman might have put him away when she put away childish things, but I couldn’t imagine treating my old friend so shabbily. Instead, Reginald sat in his own special niche in the bookshelves, very near the blue journal, and I rarely entered the study without greeting him.
    â€œBess and I rubbed elbows with royalty this morning,” I continued.
    Though Reginald didn’t speak his thoughts aloud, I could tell by the gleam in his black button eyes that he was intrigued.
    â€œYou and me both, little buddy,” I said. “I’m counting on Aunt Dimity to give me a crash course on the Summer King.”
    I touched a fingertip to the faded grape-juice stain on Reginald’s pink flannel snout, then took the blue journal from its shelf and sat with it in one of the pair of tall leather armchairs facing the hearth.
    â€œDimity?” I said as I opened the journal.
    I smiled as the familiar lines of royal-blue ink began to loop and curl gracefully across the page.
    Good afternoon, Lori. How are you, my dear? Feeling better, I hope?
    I suppressed an impatient sigh. During my pregnancy, Aunt Dimity had fallen into the habit of inquiring after my health and she hadn’t yet fallen out of it. I found her concern touching, if a bit outdated.
    â€œI’m as strong as an ox,” I assured her.
    And Bess?
    â€œShe’s in the kitchen, showing Bill how to do push-ups,” I said.
    And her brothers?
    â€œIt’s Saturday, Dimity,” I reminded her. “Will and Rob are galloping over hill and dale on Thunder and Storm.”
    Of course they are. They spend every Saturday with their ponies. What about Bill, then? Is he well?
    â€œHe was when I left him,” I said, “but if Bess wins the push-up contest, he might be a bit demoralized.”
    And how is everyone else? Have you heard from Bree and Jack lately?
    Bree Pym and Jack MacBride were from New Zealand and Australia, respectively, though they currently resided in Finch. Both were in their early twenties and each had been drawn to the village by the death of a relative. Bree had inherited her great-grandaunts’ redbrick house, just as Jack had inherited his uncle’s ivy-covered cottage, but while Bree intended to go on living in her inheritance, Jack had put his up for sale.
    Bree and Jack were the youngest unmarried couple in Finch by a matter of decades. As such, they’d been subjected to an excruciating degree of scrutiny by their neighbors. The women hazarded endless guesses about when, where, and how they would marry and the men placed bets on when Jack would move in with Bree, whether they were married or not.
    While speculation swirled around them, the young couple had decided—quite wisely, in my opinion—to put their fledgling relationship to the test by embarking on a lengthy tour of their home countries. They’d been away for two months already, but they’d kept in touch with me, and as far as I could tell, they were still a couple.
    â€œWe received a postcard from them this morning,” I said in reply to Aunt