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other.
    “Kelmscott Manor, of course,” Rose said. “Although I don’t know if they offer tours every day, and it’s not in London.”
    “Neither is the Red House,” Opal added.
    “Well, the V and A, of course,” Rose concluded.
    Opal nodded and sipped her tea.
    “And that’s a museum?” The name wasn’t ringing a bell. The British Museum showed up in all the lists of recommended tourist sights, as did the Tate Britain Gallery, Madame Tussauds Museum of Waxworks, and, of course, the National Portrait Gallery. I hated asking what the V and A was, but after all, I was a tourist. I still had my passport in a pouch tucked under my clothing to prove it.
    “Why, the Victoria and Albert,” Rose said.
    I made a note and decided I would gather more information from our hotel concierge on the subject.
    Within the first five minutes of sitting at Rose’s table in that warm and cheery breakfast room, I felt my feet thaw, along with the rest of me. The tea served was more than just a beverage; it was a defroster. An elixir that brought me into the present.
    I lifted the china teacup to my lips, and my smile curled around the smooth rim. For a decaf-grande-triple-nonfat-latte-in-a-to-go-cup sort of woman, I was curiously finding myself being won over to the wonder of tea. Or perhaps it was the ceremony of sitting down and “taking tea.” Here we were, on the other side of the world, yet it didn’t seem unusual or out of place for the four of us women to be together like this, sipping tea and chatting. Was this elemental camaraderie true of women the world over? Around such a table, how could we not be of one heart?
    Rose pushed away from the table with some difficulty and exited through a swinging door that led, I assumed, into the kitchen. I leaned toward Opal and said, “What happened to Virgil?”
    “No one seems to know. He’s been that way ever since his wife passed on some years ago.”
    “No, I mean, where did he go?”
    “Oh. Home, no doubt. He’ll be back. He always comes back.”

R ose returned to the sunroom just then with a plate of the warm scones. “You really must try these with some of the lemon curd.” She pointed to a small bowl, which contained pale yellow jam.
    Kellie and I both tried the lemon curd and said, “Delicious!” at the same time. We gave each other “twin” looks and tried not to tumble into a fit of laughter.
    Rose seemed pleased with our assessment and settled back into polite conversation, discussing our flight and the traffic we’d encountered leaving Heathrow.
    The thin sunlight through the high windows was waning. In the twilight that now hushed the breakfast room, the pull of slumber became overpowering. I wondered if Kellie was feeling the same draw. A short nap sounded so good right then.
    When the teapot was emptied, Kellie glanced at me, and I knew it was time for us to be on our way.
    Just as Tolkien had invented an elfin language in his Lord of the Rings novels, Kellie and I had developed an entire code of facial movements. Over the years we found we could communicate with each other when no one else knew what our pursed lips or tilted head meant.
    I gave Kellie a “yes, let’s get going” dip of the chin and tried to think of how to insert the “we must be on our way” line into the conversation. I started with, “Would you like us to carry your luggage to your room, Opal?”
    “She’s staying downstairs with me,” Rose said. “The guest room upstairs is ready for the two of you.”
    “Oh, we’re not staying,” I said. “Did Opal not tell you? We’re going on to London this evening. We have hotel reservations.”
    Rose shook her head with clear disapproval. “Hotels are so expensive, don’t you think? I was just reading in the paper the other day that London is one of the most expensive cities in the world for hotel accommodations. Hong Kong was on the list as well. Can you imagine that?”
    “We have a very good, discounted rate,” Kellie