A huge smile filled her face. Finally, real progress. At her last appointment, the doctor had promised her that the pain would dissipate soon. After so much time, she had forgotten what living without it felt like.

At the dining room’s threshold, Elise hesitated, her eyebrows shooting upward. Ian, a local university student hired for the event, had stacked piles of birch and hazel catkins on two round tabletops. The ancient oak dining table had been replaced by circular tables.

Elise’s father had invited well over fifty guests to the annual supper, an event reserved for her parents’ closest friends, which preceded the ball.

“I’ve brought the table runners, Mrs. Sinclair. Where would you like me to put them?” Elise called out, the box digging into her arms.

Mrs. Sinclair glanced in her direction, then motioned toward an adjoining table with clear plastic containers holding early magnolia blossoms.

“Over there. Has Torsha arrived yet? She promised to do the centerpieces.”

The housekeeper ran a hand through her rusty curls, setting the strands on end. “I don’t know why the florist sent me these blooms a day early. Some of the petals were touched by frost, and the edges have browned.”

Elise backed slowly toward the door. She didn’t care to witness the scold Torsha would receive upon arrival.

“Ian, run down and see if Maeve has finished ironing the tablecloths,” Mrs. Sinclair ordered.

“Aye, ma’am.”

Before Elise could make her escape, Torsha Sinclair bustled in, her baskets overflowing with floral bits and bobs.

“Torsha, where have you been?”

Mrs. Sinclair was a stickler for promptness.

“Sorry, Auntie. I lost track of the time.” Torsha set her baskets on an empty table. “The Pernettya berries I found in the woods were especially good this year. The birds let the lot of them alone. Mum’s liable to . . .”

Elise made her escape. When it came to floral arrangements, she would just as soon not prove her ignorance.

Harry wolfed down the last two bites of muesli, rinsed the bowl, and left the crockery in the kitchen basin. The telly in the adjoining lounge blared.

Torrential rains from Tropical Storm Agnes have caused extensive flooding along the south of England. Fort Monkton and the Stokes Bay Golf Course are currently underwater.

He frowned and clicked off the telly. Fort Monkton was underwater still? The British army’s basic- and field-training establishment was quartered there along with SIS’s liaison exercises.

“Sammy, are you ready, lad?” he called.

“Coming.” Sammy bounced into the kitchen a minute later, clad in shorts and a t-shirt.

The boy had slept in his clothes again.

Harry jerked his chin toward the streaming windows. “Trousers and shoes might be nice, not to mention an anorak.”