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am going by to have a look around, and dream about paint and draperies.”
    His nose wrinkled. “No, thank you, Mamma!”
    Madeleine smiled indulgently. “Very well, then,” she said. “As punishment, I shall paint your room puce. Or purple. Or pumpkin, perhaps? Now, it is almost time for luncheon. How shall we walk home? Look, up ahead is Beaufort Street. I believe it will take us up to the King’s Highway. That might be pleasant.”
    “That way, then,” Geoff agreed good-naturedly. “But hurry, Mamma. Now that I think on it, I am getting hungry again.”
    They set off arm in arm, pausing once or twice to look into shop windows or admire a house which caught Geoff’s eye. They were but halfway up the street, however, when Madeleine sensed the child’s mood begin to shift. His arm slipped from hers. His boyish chatter ceased, and his pace began to flag. Suddenly, he stopped on the pavement, his expression stark yet stubborn. Madeleine turned to look at him.
    “Geoff, what is wrong?”
    “I want—I want to go back, Mamma.”
    Madeleine knew the signs. Dear God, not now. “Geoff, we need to go home,” she cajoled. “Come along, now. We are blocking the pavement.”
    “But I don’t wish to go!” cried the boy. “I want to go back.”
    Exasperation told in her voice. “Go back where?”
    A man in a brown greatcoat pushed past them, scowling over his shoulder. “Bloody tourists!” he muttered beneath his breath.
    Geoff stared right through him. Madeleine could feel the strange terror taking the boy into its grip. “Back—back to Cheyne Walk,” he rasped. “Back to the river.”
    “Geoff, darling, that makes no sense.”
    “Whatever you wish, then.” His jaw hardened, and his face began to darken. “I just do not wish to go any farther.”
    “On Beaufort Street, do you mean?” Madeleine exhaled sharply. “Then which way do you wish to go, pray?”
    “How should I know?” he choked. “Not this way. But I do not know another way. Please , Mamma, just do it. ” The boy was staring at his feet and visibly trembling. His hands were fisted, his knuckles white.
    Madeleine knew that if she challenged him, his anxiety would only worsen. Once, during their last year in Campania, he had refused to board a ferry bound for Palermo. He had been but seven years old, and yet he had clung to the gangway railing and screamed incoherently for all of ten minutes, tears streaming down his little face. Madeleine had not possessed the heart to tear him away, and force him onto the boat.
    It was not the first time she had given in to his “temper tantrums,” as Bessett had called them. Looking back, perhaps that had been a mistake. Her husband had certainly thought so. Nonetheless, after the ferry departed without them and they had frog-marched Geoff back to the carriage, the child had covered his ears with his hands, and curled himself into a ball on the carriage floor, where he quietly sobbed the entire journey home.
    Bessett, of course, had been furious. This time, he had insisted she take the boy upstairs and thrash him—or he would do it for her. She had done it herself, with a green switch to the backs of his legs. It had been one of the most sickening experiences of her life. And it had done not one whit of good. The strange moods and fits had only worsened.
    “Which way, then?” she said gently. “Back the way we came?”
    Mutely, he nodded, still refusing to look at her. Madeleine took his hand and set off back down the street. Their walk to Chelsea had been warm and companionable. Now she was practically dragging the boy behind her. She was angry, and she was worried. She did not like to see Geoff so frightened, or behaving so irrationally.
    She gave his hand an encouraging squeeze, but Geoff did not respond. Madeleine bit her lip to keep from crying, then quickened her pace.
     
    The Walham Arms was a fine old public house built of stone the color of a rainy afternoon, and perched right on the edge of