Eve wondered if she could politely elect not to answer.

“Is he ill?” Lucy nudged. Lord, the woman was like a diamond drill.

“Not exactly,” Eve murmured, pouring tomatoes into a saucepan and opening up the spice rack. “He just—well, he got a little bit run over—”

Lucy’s air of calm evaporated. “He what?”

Eve spun around to face the other woman, hoping her own guilt wasn’t patently obvious. “Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. Just a broken wrist and a very mild concussion, so—”

“Run over by who?” Lucy demanded. Diamond. Drill.

“Erm,” Eve squeaked. “Me?”

Lucy stared in a very violent manner.

Eve began mentally cataloging all the knives in the kitchen and their whereabouts in relation to Lucy’s hands.

After a tense moment, the older woman said, “Are you . . . are you trying to tell me that my nephew, your employer, is currently in bed because you hit him with your car?”

A new guest popped up at the window like a video-game toadstool. “What’s that? Someone hit Jacob with a car?”

“No,” Eve said.

“Apparently,” Lucy said.

“Blimey. Any hash browns going?” asked the guest.

Eve bit her lip. “I’m—I’m certain I can whip some up if you give me just a—”

Lucy held up a hand. “Please, don’t let me keep you. I will be upstairs, checking my nephew’s still alive.” She swept out of the room.

Oh dear.

Eve supposed, all things considered, she’d better do a damned good job with this breakfast.

* * *

“Why in God’s name didn’t you call me?!”

Leaning against his dresser, Jacob squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his thumbs to his temples. Didn’t help: his headache still flared in time with every outraged lilt in Aunt Lucy’s voice. He sighed and opened a drawer, rifling through it for his spare glasses. “Because you were busy.”

“Busy?! A couple of clients and a weekly book club is not busy, Jacob!”

“I didn’t want you to worry.” He found his old case and pulled out a pair of glasses identical to his current frames, except for the fact that these were undamaged, and also weaker by 0.75 in the right eye. Sliding them on, he blinked until the slight blurriness became almost unnoticeable. These would do, for now.

“It’s my job to worry about you, you plonker,” Aunt Lucy said. He turned to face her, and this time, he could see her furrowed brow and pale cheeks clearly. His gut squeezed with guilt. And with a little pain from the ache in his skull and his back and his stomach. The stomach was hunger. But he hadn’t even managed to shower yet, so hunger would have to wait.

“Sorry,” he said, because he knew from experience that she wouldn’t leave him in peace until he apologized. “But in my defense, I was concussed when I told Mont not to tell you.”

“Ha! I’ll be having a word with young Eric soon enough,” Lucy said, looking menacing.