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peak a long gauzy veil stood straight out every timethe wearer moved. It was an impractical appendage, as the tears and snags in the fragile fabric indicated.
    â€œMrs. Ponsonby-Jones,” said Weldon in a subdued voice. “My late cousin’s wife.”
    â€œAnd your queen,” said Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones, in a voice that made her gauze veil flutter. She gave Weldon a coy glance and a dig with her elbow. “Richard’s wife, Queen Anne. Good day, Thomas—dear brother Clarence, I should say, though you were not very kind to poor little Anne, were you? You must get into costume at once, we are having such a jolly time pretending.” Thomas, who had been opening and closing his mouth, had no chance to reply. Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones turned her attention to Jacqueline, not liking what she saw and making no effort to conceal it. “Hem. Yes, as Richard’s hostess, let me welcome you, Miss—er—hem. Of course you will want to join our little game of make-believe. I fear that all the major parts are taken; but you will no doubt enjoy portraying one of the ladies of the court, or perchance a serving wench. I am sure I can find some costume for you in the old-clothes basket, Miss—er—Mrs—hem.”
    â€œHow nice of you, Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones,” said Jacqueline. She turned to the other older woman in the group, and Richard Weldon said quickly,“Lady Isobel Crawford.”
    The only word for Lady Isobel was “skinny.” “Thin” would have been an understatement. She was barely five feet tall, and thirty years earlier she might have been a petite, dainty little woman. Her robe was a copy of one worn by Edward IV’s queen, Elizabeth Woodville, in a National Gallery portrait. The truncated hennin of gold brocade matched the metallic sheen of her bleached hair and was adorned with a butterfly veil, supported by three fine wires that gave it its shape. Her gown of black velvet was trimmed at cuffs and neckline with matching gold brocade. The neckline was cut low, showing an embroidered undertunic and a pair of bony shoulders. Chains and pendants jangled when she moved.
    â€œHow do you do, Dr. Kirby,” said Lady Isobel. She went on, with an amused glance at Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones, “I fear our little charades must strike you as foolish. I assure you, they are not—to those of us who share a touch of the divine spark of creativity….”
    Modestly she examined her fingernails, and Weldon said,
    â€œI’m sure you have read Lady Isobel’s novels, Dr. Kirby. Her book about Richard is particularly admired.”
    â€œThe Gallant Young King,” said Jacqueline. “Oh, yes. I read it.”
    â€œHow sweet,” murmured Lady Isobel. She examined Jacqueline. Suddenly she gave a little squeal and clapped her hands. “Oh, my dear, you must participate. You’ve no idea of the mystical insight of identification—the understanding one derives of the person one is representing—the passions, the suffering, the—I’ve always thought…the aura, in short. One feels it—here.” She clasped her hands over her flat bosom, and smiled at Jacqueline. “Unfortunately, all the major parts do seem to be taken. I would offer you my own part of Elizabeth Woodville, but I’m afraid you would simply pop out of my costume!”
    â€œSo sweet of you,” said Jacqueline enthusiastically. “But I couldn’t take such an important part—a visitor like myself. Oh!” It was a diabolical imitation of Lady Isobel’s squeal. Jacqueline clapped her hands girlishly. “I know! I shall be Richard’s mistress. That is, if Sir Richard doesn’t mind?”
    She beamed at Sir Richard, who was looking a little bewildered.
    â€œNot at all,” he said heartily. “Jolly good.”
    â€œMistress!” Lady Ponsonby-Jones exclaimed. “Richard, I really do not think it is