“Sorry,” said Lillian, dropping into the seat. Kostos tipped his hat and shut the door on her.

Spring had made faint inroads in the city. Rain had melted most of the snow, except where it had been shoveled into truly giant heaps. Forsythia bloomed along the fencerows of Loendler Park. Some optimistic crocuses were creeping from the earth: feathery green leaves, and here and there a blossom baiting the frost.

In front of number twenty-four on Coral Street, there was still a bevy of reporters. Now that she’d let one draw first blood, she wondered if the others would tear in harder or perhaps back off.

This time she was prepared to meet them and didn’t steer the cabbie around the back. But she wasn’t prepared to take any more questions tonight, so she sorted through her masks and chose the one that made her unapproachable while still inviting empathy. A proud angle to the chin, but soft around the mouth and eyes.

Outside the cab, the street was chaos. If the neighbors didn’t already despise her, the flashbulbs would certainly do it. She walked through it like the Wandering Queen through a mountain gale, toward the front door, which opened for her. Magnusson stood framed at the top of the steps, in his impeccable necktie and tails. He’d been waiting by the front window, no doubt. Probably with a pulpy novel on his knee.

Maybe that was why he stayed on with her—never a dull moment in the DePaul household. It was near as he could come to living like Rita Ryder.

“Thank you,” she said, as he closed the door against the crowd outside. Their questions faded into a disappointed murmur beyond the stained-glass panels of the vestibule.

“Not at all.”

“Dinner?”

“There’s a plate kept warm for you. And, ma’am, if you have time tomorrow, I received several notices of interest from qualified cooks. With excellent references.”

“Of course,” she said. “I would be delighted to speak with them.”

The staff wouldn’t grow much beyond that, for now, but thanks to Makricosta’s largesse she could at least take the burden of feeding the family off Magnusson’s back. If she or Jinadh had ever tried, they’d have set number twenty-four on fire. Like talking about money, she had not been raised to feel at home in the kitchen.

Magnusson took her coat and scarf. “Mr. Addas is in the library with Stephen. I regret that I cannot attend to drinks, but—”

She flapped a hand. “You have plenty to do. I can pour a tumbler of whiskey myself.”

“Of course, ma’am.” And then he was gone, and she was off to find her family.

The radio was turned to a station conspicuously different from the one she had just spoken on, playing a bit of—oh, she’d always been bad at composers, but it sounded like Innevin. Soft piano music in three-four time.