Esther nodded, thinking of how it had been when she was still with The Boy—the constant ache of not being with him and yet not being free, anchored in the water, pulled back and forth with the tide. It wasn’t hard to see how Grace was struggling to get the balance right.

It had been difficult, but with a little distance, Esther thought that perhaps what had happened to her had been for the best.

A salacious “Ooooooooh . . .” rippled around the table, and a few last-minute bets exchanged hands before someone took up the chant, “Dai-sy! Dai-sy! Dai-sy!”

Scrutinizing her options, Daisy chose her spot and bent over. The baize was soft beneath her fingertips as she splayed the fingers of her left hand, the wood of the pool . . . pole? brushing against her chin. Drawing air into her lungs, Daisy channeled a little Zoise learning to summon a yogi-like calm amid the clamor of the pool hall. In one smooth motion, she struck the cue ball, and the room fell silent.

The white rolled the length of the table and gently kissed the black.

Almost before it was sunk, the room erupted into a cacophony of cheering and whooping. Ed Gemmell grabbed Daisy’s arm and swung it high into the air.

“The undisputed champion—Daisy Wooton!”

Overwhelmed at being the focus of so much good cheer from so many strangers, Daisy edged away toward the vending machine, hoping that no one would notice.

But one person did: her opponent.

“An excellent match and a worthy victor.” McGraw held out his hand, and they shook. For all that her loyalties lay with Susan, there was no denying that McGraw was one of the most considerate, polite, and downright chivalrous people Daisy had ever encountered. He had the manners of a Regency gentleman, the mustache of a middle-aged man, and the youthful twinkle in his smile of someone who looked at the world and liked it.

Which was probably exactly the reason Susan found him intolerable.

“Do you fancy another game?” McGraw asked, but before Daisy had a chance to excuse herself, his phone rang. Looking down, McGraw frowned at the name onscreen before answering. “Hello?”

This wasn’t supposed to have happened. Susan wasn’t someone who drank too much. Ever. It must have been something in that tapas platter.

It certainly smelled like something in that tapas platter.

“I’m not drunk. I’ll be fine.” Susan groaned at the patch of tarmac she was staring at, sitting on the curb, her elbows propped on her knees, hands supporting her head. “You’ve got to get your train.”

“We’re not leaving you on your own . . .” Beebz said from somewhere above.