“But,” he said, growing serious, “when called upon to perform a difficult task—last-minute choreography, or taking on the dangerous burdens of a friend—that difficulty revealed itself as stubborn strength of character.”

Cyril thought of her again, weeping with rage as she refused what he’d offered her—a spot working for the Ospies, which he’d thought would keep her safe. Strength of character, of course. And conviction. And in the end, she’d even been right.

“It is not easy,” Aristide went on, “to destroy your life. To coat the things you love in kerosene and light a match. To wire the halls of your heart with dynamite and flip the switch. The pain does not pale, even when viewed in the light of a greater purpose.”

Gulls cried in the quiet; Aristide had made the crowd forget their restlessness, so they stood silent beneath the cloud of their own breath. An image, in the shiny black and white of rotogravure, hung in Cyril’s mind: flames curling through the wrought-iron balconies of Aristide’s Baldwin Street apartment building.

“Cordelia’s aims were great,” said Aristide, into the quiet. “And she believed that they were worth every sacrifice she made. That does not mean they did not hurt.”

Expectation hung in the air like the exhalations of the audience, everyone waiting for Aristide to say something more. Only Cyril was unsurprised when he gave an odd little shrug, and pulled the rope.

CHAPTER

TEN

The speech was hideously genuine, but Aristide felt he owed Cordelia that much. He’d shown himself just across the aisle from sober to get through the thing. If … what was the woman’s name? Honora. Yes. If Honora or any of the other grandees had taken exception to his consumption of three martinis and a sizable digestif over the course of their painful luncheon, nobody had mentioned it.

The monument wasn’t quite as awful as his speech had been, but he didn’t think Cordelia would have liked it. The stone obelisk and copper plaque were too tasteful and staid. She’d have wanted gold plate twenty feet tall, tits out and flag flying.

He hadn’t let himself look at the crowd closely while speaking; instead he’d used the old trick of staring just beyond the last row. It made everyone feel as though you were looking straight at them, albeit from a noble distance with your chin cocked high. Embarrassment would have made him fumble, if he’d seen any familiar faces.

Lillian had rung the hotel the night before to say she’d see him at the reception after, but wouldn’t have much time to chat. He made sympathetic noises and accepted her apology, trying to decide if he felt grateful to be spared her small talk.