The porter raised his eyebrows slightly. She was, after all, a Lone Young Lady, turning up in the evening to visit a single man in his flat. No girl of good family would do such a thing. It was clear the porter thought she was no better than she should be. Cordelia didn’t care. She was freezing and desperate.

“He’s upstairs in flat six, third floor. Get along with you.” The porter turned his attention back to reading the newspaper.

The lift was luxurious, all gold fixtures and expensive wallpaper. She tapped her feet as it creaked slowly upward to the third floor, disgorging her into a red-carpeted hallway lined with doors, each marked with a gold numeral. Only now was Cordelia’s courage starting to flag; she hurried down the corridor before she could have second thoughts and knocked sharply on the door of flat 6.

Nothing. Then footsteps, and Matthew’s voice. The familiarity of it sent a pang of relief through her. “Hildy, I’ve told you,” he was saying, as he swung the door wide, “I don’t need any washing done—”

He froze, staring at Cordelia. He was in trousers and an undershirt, a towel around his neck. His arms were bare, patterns of runes twining up and down them. His hair was damp and tousled. She must have interrupted him shaving.

“Cordelia?” he said, and there was genuine shock in his voice. “Has something happened? Is James in trouble?”

“No,” Cordelia whispered. “James is well, and—very happy, I think.”

Something in Matthew’s expression changed. His gaze flickered. He stood back, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

She stepped into a small square hall, an entryway of sorts, where one’s eye was drawn compulsively to the massive neoclassical vase standing in one corner. It was of the Greek sort, the kind a maiden would use to pour oil into a bath, though in this case that maiden would have to be twenty feet tall. It was painted all over with faux Greek figures engaged in either combat or passionate embrace, Cordelia could not tell.

“I see you’ve noticed my vase,” Matthew said.

“It would be difficult not to.”

Matthew wasn’t really looking at her, instead tugging nervously at the ends of the towel around his neck. “Let me give you the ha’penny tour, then. This is my vase, whom you’ve met, and that there is a potted palm, and a hatstand. Take off your wet shoes, and we’ll go through to the drawing room. Do you want tea? I can ring for tea. Or make some; I’ve become quite handy with a kettle. Or…”