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public manner. She loved her father deeply, but he could be a monstrous prick at times. Her anger grew at his rejection, and her hurt welled up. She snapped into focus, suddenly aware of the freezing cold in her room. She reached to close the window but felt hot gorge rise in her throat, and she leaned out quickly. Hot bile burned her throat as she voided herself into the fresh white morning.
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    Camille Jolivet woke from a deep sleep when the telephone rang at six a.m. She had requested a wake-up call from Jeremy, and it was his voice she heard on the telephone now. She smiled as she replaced the receiver. It had been a long time since the man she’d spoken to last thing at night was the same man to greet her the next morning. She remembered that she liked it.
    Camille reached for her cigarettes and lighter from the nightstand, propped herself up on her plush pillows and lit the first cigarette of the day, drawing deeply with her eyes closed, savoring the rush as the nicotine worked its magic. She exhaled joyously and lay in her bed, truly happy.
    She reviewed the events of the night before. Her first face-to-face meeting with her secret half-sister, the shock that her father was dead, and the realization she would be rich. Wealthy. Loaded. Riche . She rolled the words around in her mind, savoring them as she savored her cigarette.
    Camille felt no grief at her father’s death. She had barely known him and had never felt the lack of a father figure in her life. She had crossed the Atlantic Ocean because she wanted the man’s money, not his love. She had suffered in life, but no one needed to know about her past. It was better they didn’t. All they needed to see was the elegant French girl grieving for her father even as she staked her claim to his money.
    She would soon have everything she had ever wanted. She could endure a few more days of faking a daughter’s love, and after it was done she would be free forever. Camille listed the places she’d travel and the clothes she would buy and the jewels she desired. She stubbed her cigarette out in a heavy crystal ashtray on the nightstand, swung her legs out of bed and enjoyed the feel of the thick carpet between her toes as she padded to the shower, humming a happy tune.
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    Winnie Tremethick had not slept well. She had woken at 2am and been unable to return to sleep. Her routine at home was to wake for chores at seven, and her old body refused to accept the notion she was anywhere other than in Cornwall. She lay in bed for long hours until the dark sky turned lighter, signaling dawn’s arrival.
    She wanted a hot drink, but the idea of calling someone else to bring her a pot of tea seemed scandalous, so she went without. She drew a bath and picked out her best dress while it filled. The lawyer, Mr. Bird, had made it clear that today was important, and she wanted to dress appropriately. She picked out her favorite brooch, a gold oak leaf, and laid it on the bed next to her clothes before returning to the sparkling marble and gold bathtub.
    Winnie was confused about why she was in America. The lawyer had asked her how she had known the famous philanthropist, but she had not been able to answer. She hadn’t known Thurwell. She had never met an American in her life. Not many would have reason to visit her village and Winnie had never traveled. Her answer had clearly troubled Mr. Bird and she was sorry for causing him concern, he seemed like a nice fellow. She had promised to think on it overnight, and though she had been doing little else for the past five hours, no answers came.

    She lay in the hot water, and the warmth eased her joints and gave some little relief to her arthritic fingers. She closed her eyes and wondered where and when she might have met a rich American that wanted her to share his fortune. As she pondered the stubborn question, she drifted back to sleep.
    $
    Caroline Smith was showered and dressed in a smart business suit at 6.10am. She stood in front