He was standing just a few feet from her, on the eddying edge of the crowd. He was using the advantage of his height to scan over the heads of those entering to watch who came through the door. He was wearing, Lindsay saw, a black overcoat, a black suit, and a black tie, a formality of dress that made him stand out from the crowd. His face was pale and set; he never once moved his eyes from the doorway, and Lindsay knew, without a second’s doubt, for whom he was searching that crowd.

He must have seen Lindsay enter, though he gave no indication of doing so, because he made one quick move, still keeping his eyes on the door. A heavy American who had pushed past Lindsay earlier now found himself thrust aside so hard, he nearly fell; Lindsay found that her arm had been gripped, and she had been drawn through the press of people to his side.

“You see that usher there?” He gestured to one of the Cazarès assistants. “He has three seats for us, center aisle, fourth row. Claim yours now. I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Three seats—and they’re keeping them? Rowland, how on earth—?”

“Ways and means.” He gave a tight smile. “Just go.”

Lindsay did so. The assistant in question could not have shown more solicitude had she been the editor of American Vogue. Lindsay looked around her, mystified, then saw that the editors of American Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar and French Vogue and Paris Match and Hello! were in the same row. She was greeted with raised eyebrows and little quick air kisses. Five minutes later Rowland joined her. As he sat down, he said: “Have you seen Gini this morning? Did she come back to the hotel?”

“No. I didn’t know she’d gone out.”

“She had some research to do.” He turned, craning his neck, and looked back at the doors. “Maybe she was held up…”

Lindsay said nothing. He radiated tension. She looked at his pale, averted face; she looked down at his strong, capable hands, which were half clenched, and she could sense deep perturbation. Something had obviously happened, something well beyond the scenario she had been painting. She felt ashamed at her own triviality; the last residual influences of Pixie’s stories fell away.

If Gini was coming, she was too late now. They were closing the doors at the back of the room. At the front, in the pit below the dais, the phalanx of photographers and TV crews stirred.

Lindsay said gently, “Do you always wear black, Rowland, on occasions like this?”

“What?” He glanced toward her, then away.

“Most people don’t bother. Not anymore. Not even for funerals, these days.”

“I don’t really know. I wasn’t thinking about it particularly.” He turned back to look at the rear doors again. “Habit, maybe. Upbringing. When I was a small child—in Ireland—people dress for death. It’s a mark of respect—why?”

“No reason.” Lindsay was touched. “I like it. It’s old-fashioned. But it feels right—that’s all.”