“How I managed to dress myself without one growing up, I’ll never know,” Iris said. “Do you button your own buttons now?”

“I do. Did you find out the names of any of their servants in your research?”

“Not yet,” said Iris. “That’s not the sort of information that makes it into a news story.”

“We’d have to find people who knew them then,” said Gwen. “I wonder if the butler stayed with the villa while they were in exile.”

“They settled in Paris after they fled Greece,” said Iris. “If Talbot’s widow is there, we could kill two birds. Maybe Lady M would approve that particular trip. Which reminds me, we should call her in the morning and let her know what we’ve found so far.”

“I can do that,” said Gwen. “Which one am I again?”

“Catherine Prescott.”

“Right, you’re Oona. And while we’re speaking of clandestine contacts, there is a call you should make in the morning as well.”

Iris looked out the train window as they descended into a tunnel, biting her lower lip in chagrin.

“I will call him,” she said. “I’m not happy about it, but I’ll do it. It could speed things up, and we’ve already been at it for three days.”

“Two full ones, to be fair,” said Gwen. “Thank you, Iris. I know how much this pains you.”

“I’ll be late coming in tomorrow, then,” said Iris. “You can run the shop without me?”

“Of course.”

She had bad dreams that night. The one where her parachute didn’t open. The one where she trudged through a muddy fen and dead women’s hands reached up to pull her inexorably down as she flailed and screamed. The one about Carlos …

Iris woke in a cold sweat, her chest heaving, arms thrashing about the bed, checking for dead men.

He’s not here, she thought as she regained control of herself. He can’t do anything to you.

You bloody well made sure of that.

Her eyes came to rest on a comforting sight. The bottle of whisky Archie had thoughtfully left for future colds. Or future visits.

Or future visitations.

It wouldn’t be the first time she had taken a small dram of courage to get her through the morning. And she might need it to face Him again. And then it would be back to the office, and it would be just another Thursday—

Thursday. She was meeting that psychiatrist this afternoon. If she admitted that she had started her morning with the help of a whisky bottle, it would not make for a promising beginning.

She decided she’d save Archie’s gift for special occasions. Like visits from him. Or her next cold.

Or Friday.

She got up, put the kettle on, washed her face, then dressed and applied her makeup, except for her lipstick. She poured herself a cup of tea and had it with a single piece of toast. Then came time for her most important decision. She pulled out her small collection of lipsticks and considered.