Rowland scowled at his own mirrored face. He glanced down at Markov’s very white high-top designer sneakers. His lip curled. With luck, he thought, Markov, the heavy smoker, would be out of breath before they left the orchard.

“Not the valley,” he replied with great courtesy. “I’m going up there.” He pointed in the direction of the hills. “Do join me, by all means. Only I should warn you. It’s steep. And it’s likely to be muddy.”

“No worries.” Markov waved a languid hand. “I guess I’ll manage to plow my way through. I love walking. Back home—I’m from California, did I mention that?”

“I guessed.”

“—Back home, you know where I go? You’ve heard of Yosemite?”

“I’ve climbed in Yosemite actually. Several times.”

“Wow. Cosmic coincidence! I go there every month. I get back from location, no matter where, and I trek. Out into the wilderness. Beyond the reach of man. It kind of irrigates my mind. I guess you’ll understand that…”

Rowland shuddered, and lengthened his stride.

Reaching the bottom of the steepest hill behind Max’s property, he began to lope up its narrow and indeed muddy path. To his intense irritation, Markov kept up. Rowland accelerated again; he waited for complaints, or pants, or sighs; none came. Markov was right on his heels, like some appalling hound of God.

“I would have thought,” Rowland said tightly some way farther on, “that a country christening wasn’t really your style. Or walks, for that matter.”

“In that case,” said Markov, putting on a spurt, “you’d be oh so but completely one hundred percent wrong. I wouldn’t have missed this occasion for anything.”

Rowland gave him a glance of pure dislike. Markov, who was tall, lean, and wirily built, had now somehow contrived to get in front of him. He bounded ahead, his ghastly sneakers flashing white as he negotiated boulders and rabbit holes. Rowland slowed, but this technique did not work either. Markov, blessedly lost from sight just minutes before, suddenly popped up from behind a thorn thicket. With a wide, authoritative smile, he once more took his place at Rowland’s tweed-jacketed elbow and matched him stride for stride.

“Of course, the real reason, the serious reason I’m here is Lindsay,” Markov went on in a reflective way. “Because I really admire her and like her, and right now she needs her friends. So—moral-support time. I guess she hasn’t told you? No—there’s no way she would. Poor Lindsay. She really needs help and advice—but can she ask for it? No. Too much pride, of course.”

He cast a little glance at Rowland McGuire as he made this pronouncement. Rowland’s handsome face gave no sign of any reaction, and Markov felt a grudging admiration. Just as devastating as Lindsay had claimed, he thought, and no pushover. This would require rather more labor than he had anticipated; Rowland’s scorn was almost palpable. It was there in the contemptuous flash of his green eyes, and in the set of his lips. Markov decided to be more impressive; wave the wand, he thought—oh, and better modify the speech.