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Nineties”—thirty-year-old Assemblyman Michael Stanstead was being touted as the brightest young star in the New York Republican firmament. He would be running for Congress in a favorable district, and after some time in the House, who knows where he might end up.
    â€œI feel so much better. I think it was meant that you were there last night. But I must dash.” Emma gave Faith a quick hug and a smile crossed her face, fears allayed. A slight shadow: “You do promise not to tell anyone? Oh, I’m being silly. Of course I know that you wouldn’t.”
    Faith was glad that Emma, having spilled her guts, now considered her blackmail problem solved, and she hated to spoil things. But blackmailers tended to follow up on threats.
    â€œWhat are you going to do about the note?”
    Emma had her hand up for a cab. She turned around.
    â€œAbsolutely nothing at the moment.”
    A taxi pulled up to the curb and Emma waved goodbye.
    Faith crossed the street to the bus stop. Business was good, but not cab versus bus fare good enough yet. As she waited, she realized she was exhausted—and worried. She’d have to try to get Emma to tell her husband. There was no other way. Faith couldn’t go to the police herself and betray Emma’s trust. She wished she could talk about the situation with her sister, Hope. Hope moved in Young Republican circles and might have picked up something about Michael that would help convince Emma—that his position was so secure, nothing short of an intrigue with farm animals would hinder his campaign, for instance. Faith also admitted that she was dying to tell somebody about Poppy and Nathan Fox. She wished she wasn’t so good at keeping secrets.
    The bus came and, mercifully, she got a seat. It was crowded with holiday shoppers, bags making the aisle difficult to negotiate. An elegant elderly woman was occupying two seats with aplomb—one for herself and one for an enormous Steiff giraffe, the head craning out of the FAO Schwarz bag. The sight of the incongruous pair was causing the whole bus to smile. It was still early enough in the shopping season for NewYorkers to feel the holiday spirit. Outside, the whole city was decked out in its finest. Faith was sorry she wasn’t walking. Each shop window rivaled the next in glittering offerings. If you can’t get it here, you can’t get it anywhere—that’s what the song lyric should say. The bus stopped, and through the open door, she could hear the Salvation Army Band’s rendition of “Good King Wenceslas.” The man next to her was humming along, and at her look of pleasure, he began to sing in a surprisingly strong tenor:
    â€œGood King Wenceslas looked out,
    On the Feast of Stephen,
    When the snow lay round about,
    Deep, and crisp, and even;
    Brightly shone the moon that night,
    Though the frost was cruel,
    When a poor man came in sight,
    Gathering winter fu-oo-el.”
    â€œThat’s as far as I go by heart,” he said apologetically.
    â€œMe, too,” Faith said. “It’s something about ‘“Hither, page”’ and ‘“Bring me flesh, and bring me wine.” ’ I’m a caterer, so I tend to remember the food details. I can do all the verses of the ‘Wassail Song.’”
    â€œA caterer. That must be hard work, especially at this time of year,” he said. Faith was mildly impressed. Usually, she heard inanities like “That must be fun” or “How do you stay so thin?” He wasn’t bad-looking—and he had to have terrific circulation. The only concession to the weather he’d made was a muffler on top of his tweed sports jacket. She looked at his hands. No gloves. No wedding ring.
    â€œIt is a busy time, thank goodness. I’ve only been in business since the fall, and it’s been going well.”
    â€œGreat. Well, this is my stop.” He dug in his pocket. “Want to