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delighted to see you.” He smiled, closing the door behind her. She thought she detected something more than good manners in his voice, perhaps even a thread of gratitude.
    She walked into the wide hall with its beautifully parqueted floor and sweeping staircase. She noticed that there was a very handsome lamp built into the newel post at the bottom.
    “I’m certain Mrs. Montserrat will wish to see you, but of course I will take the precaution of going up to ask her maid,” he explained. “If you would be good enough to wait in the withdrawing room, where the fire is lit, I shall return in a few moments. Would you care for a cup of tea?”
    “Thank you, that would be most welcome. It is inclement weather.” She accepted because it would make him feel less uncomfortable about leaving her, if it should require several moments of assistance before Serafina was ready to receive anyone.
    The withdrawing room was warm and elegant in a most unusual manner. The floor carpeting was pale blue, and the walls were papered in the darkest possible green. The somberness of it was brilliantly relieved by furnishings in Indian red and warm amber brocade, with cushions also in amber and green. Thrown carelessly across them were silk blankets with tasseled edges, woven in the same beautiful colors.
    The fire was low, but had clearly been lit since early morning, filling the air with the scent of applewood. There were paintings of northern Italian landscapes on the walls: one of Monte Bianco gleaming white in a clear evening sky; another of early morning light on Isola San Giulio, catching the roofs of the monastery, and making shadows in the clear water of Lago d’Orta, where half a dozen small boats lay motionless.
    The decor was chaotically eclectic, and full of life, and Vespasia smiled at a score of memories that crowded her mind. She and Serafina had sat at a pavement café in Vienna and drunk hot chocolate while they made notes for a political pamphlet. All around them had been excited chatter, laughter at bawdy jokes, voices sharp-edged, a little too loud with the awareness of danger and loss.
    They had stood on the shore at Trieste, side by side, the magnificent Austrian buildings behind them and the sweeping Adriatic skies above, high-arched with clouds like mares’ tails fanned out in the evening light. Serafina had cursed the whole Austrian Empire with a violence that twisted her face and made her voice rasp in her throat.
    Vespasia returned to the present with a jolt when the tea was brought. She had nearly finished it by the time a young woman came in, closing the door softly behind her. She was in her mid-thirties, dark-haired, but with such unremarkable brows and lashes that the power of her coloring was lost. She was slender and soft-voiced.
    “Lady Vespasia. How gracious of you to call,” she said quietly. “My name is Nerissa Freemarsh. My aunt Serafina is so pleased that youhave come. As soon as you have finished your tea I shall take you up to see her. I’m afraid you will find her much weaker than you may remember her, and somewhat more absentminded.” She smiled apologetically. “It has been quite some time since you last met. Please be patient with her. She seems rather confused at times. I’m so sorry.”
    “Please think nothing of it.” Vespasia rose to her feet, guilty that it had been so long since she had come to see her friend. “I daresay I forget things myself at times.”
    “But this is …” Nerissa started. Then she stopped, smiling at her own mistake. “Of course. I know you understand.” She turned and led the way out across the parqueted hall again and up the handsome staircase. She walked a little stiffly, picking up the dark, plain fabric of her skirt in one hand so she did not trip.
    Vespasia followed her up and across the landing, and—after a brief knock on the door—into the main bedroom. Inside it was warm and bright, even in the middle of this dark winter day. The fire was