“Never mind the time—are you all right?” Agatha ignored her friend’s reaction; instead, she walked right in and set the tea tray—which was laden with something that smelled delicious and comforting—on the small table next to Phyllida’s favorite chair by the fire. “Oh, close your mouth, dear. I’m perfectly capable of delivering a tray of food—which you clearly could use. Why, you’re white as a ghost. Now sit and tell me that you’re truly all right.”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Phyllida said, sinking into her favorite chair. She gathered Stilton into her lap and reveled in her soft, warm comfort. Rye, a tawny-gold cat named for the whisky, was annoyed that his mistress smelled like Myrtle, but Stilton—who was white with grayish blue streaks, like the cheese—was far more charitable. “Not even a minor bruise.”

“Please forgive me, Phyllie,” said Agatha, her eyes wide and anxious. She was half a foot taller than Phyllida, so she loomed quite a bit over her friend—especially when Phyllida was sitting. “I should never have asked you to do such a thing . . . never should have put you in such a position—”

“Not at all, Agatha. Not at all!” Phyllida was exhausted, but she had the energy to vigorously decry Agatha’s misplaced guilt. “You know me better than that.”

But Agatha shook her head sadly. “No, Phyllie. You could have died tonight. I should never have asked you to get involved!”

“Agatha.” Phyllida adopted her stern, forbidding voice—the one that caused maids and footmen alike to go pale and trembly when she used it. Stilton looked up at her worriedly. “It’s not your fault in the least. The truth is, I was already involved before you suggested I do so. I simply cannot sit back in the face of ineptitude—you must know that about me.”

Agatha gave a weak laugh. “I do know that about you, but still—”

“I’ll not have another word about it. I’m unhurt and—how did you even know about it all?”

“Oh. Well, Joshua telephoned ahead and told Dobble to have a tray prepared for you, and that you’d had an awful experience,” Agatha said.

“Joshua?” For some reason, Phyllida’s brain felt like the mush she’d eaten every morning when she’d been at the front.

“Joshua Bradford, of course. He rang from the rectory to let us know about . . . about everything. Poor Rita and . . . and what happened to you. I cannot imagine how horrific it must have been!”

Phyllida was simply too exhausted to do anything more than sigh. “How very kind of him.”

“Now, Phyllida, I want you to listen to me—”

“Look what I have,” Phyllida said, speaking over her friend. “The short story contest results at last!”