Tremont made a fuss out of setting Tommie up with a little plate and table napkin, though an atlas retrieved from the library was needed to boost the boy’s seat at the breakfast table.

“I won’t spill a single crumb on the table,” Tommie said, picking up his half a bun. “Or on the floor, Mama. I promise.”

“I’ll be back to inspect in a moment,” Matilda said. “Call out if you need anything. We’ll be right across the corridor. Please remember that it’s polite to knock before you come in.” Lest you find your mother in a sobbing heap on the floor.

Tommie nodded vigorously, his mouth being too full to reply.

Tremont accompanied Matilda to the library. “You’ve seen a ghost, haven’t you?”

“I wish.” She took up pacing before the blazing hearth. “Harry bumped into us on the street, tipped his hat, and sashayed on his way. He is alive and well, to appearances, and it was him, Marcus. The perishing bounder winked at me. That was his warning, and if you don’t hold me right this minute, I will fly into a thousand pieces and never put myself back together again.”

Tremont obliged with a secure hug. “He frightened you.”

“He terrified me. He has been terrifying me since the moment I realized that he’s not who and what I thought him to be. Harry smiled at me, Marcus. He wanted me to recognize him and wanted me to know he’s been watching me. That’s what he does when he’s setting up a scheme. He watches, like a cat at a mousehole, and then along comes the poor mouse…”

She shuddered at the memory of that friendly wink. “He was always two steps ahead of me, and now I feel as if I’m leagues behind him.”

“You are not,” Tremont said, rubbing a hand over Matilda’s back. “We are not. We’ve flushed the fox from his covert, and now the chase is on.”

Matilda stepped back. “That’s why you set patrols on the house? To provoke Harry into showing himself?”

“A confrontation was only one of his options, but I’m glad he chose it. We suspected he might be underfoot, and now we know the truth. That’s a stronger position, tactically, and he handed it to us without anybody firing any figurative shots.”

Matilda felt some wonderment that Marcus could think logically. Also, horror that Harry was alive. Dread, because whatever lay ahead would mean suffering for somebody—very probably her—and anger. Old frustration, new rage, and everything wrathful and frustrated that lay between those two poles.

“This is a war game to you?”