Mr. Streko glanced over at them, tossed his half-eaten plate of food into the unlit fire, and headed in their direction, already holding a hairy paw out to Roy.

“Salve, Mr. Clarke. I just wanted to let you know there’s no hard feelings.”

Roy’s limp grasp grew firmer as he took in the ridiculousness of the man’s orange-and-blue tattoo of a smiling baseball.

“You weren’t going to let my daughter play that match before I turned up.”

“Dad,” Shy complained from the grass.

Liam appreciated the fact that Shy’s father seemed to hate Mr. Streko as much as he did. Go, Mr. Clarke.

“Yeah, but it turns out she’s pretty good. So I’m going to have to let her play.” Mr. Streko pulled his hand away from Roy’s iron grip and gestured toward the unlit bonfire. “Ignis aurum probat.”

Shy jumped to her feet. “ ‘Fire tests gold.’ Seneca. It was one of your tweets.”

Roy sucked in his stomach and swizzled the weak gin and tonic around in his glass. Mr. Streko was just like the scientists in his book, except smarmier. He was diabolical.

“ ‘Fire tests gold,’ ” he repeated. “I like that.” The book was only a rough first draft. He could still work it in.

“Dad.” Shy imitated her mother’s controlled, bordering on controlling tone. “Why don’t you go see if Mum needs help.”

Roy peered down at Liam. He seemed even more glum than usual. He’d interrupted something, a lovers’ quarrel. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Mr. Streko backed away toward the drinks table. “Great party,” he said to no one in particular.

Wendy had just poured herself a second or third or fourth glass of champagne. Five o’clock. The sky was darkening. The garden was nearly full of happily chatting people. The caterers had everything under control. The bonfire was piled high and ready to be lit. There was the neatly stacked firewood, the old door, the broken chairs, the dismantled picnic table, and the “Guy,” supplied by Roy’s friend Tupper and his extremely odd, extremely tall, artist wife. It was a broad-shouldered, yellow-haired, orange-faced papier-mâché “Guy” wearing a flammable blue tie and a shiny gray flammable double-breasted suit. He looked very much like the recent president, whose name no one spoke out loud. They’d strung him from a rope tied beneath his arms and hung him from the upended leg of the picnic table, where he dangled helplessly, head down, shoulders stooped.