I picked one up and gave it an experimental squeeze. Instead of being soft, it was firm and sort of crunchy — filled with dried flowers, I realized.

I couldn’t see a cat anywhere, but I could tell she had one, one that didn’t always hit the box. The faded-roses scent emanating from the pillow couldn’t compete.

She returned, and we all sat around sipping tea and eating stale gingersnaps. No one said much. Sturluson kept catching my eye and giving me warm, crinkly smiles. That put me on edge. There was no good reason for her to be smiling at me. So far as she was concerned, I should’ve been a nobody.

Finally, Yellin set his cup down on the coffee table and cleared his throat.

“His Lordship sends his regards, Miss Sturluson.”

“Well isn’t that lovely? He’s such a fine young man. Please give him my best.”

Her diction surprised me. Most Seconds were relentlessly formal. I’d never heard one use a contraction.

Then again, Sturluson lived out in the world among humans. Stilted speech would make her stand out.

“Have you encountered any difficulties since I saw you last, Miss Sturluson?”

“Why no, dear. Everything’s been fine.”

Yellin nodded and raised his teacup, looking bored.

Sturluson shifted in her seat, then delicately cleared her throat, as though she were about to bring up something slightly embarrassing.

“This doesn’t have to do with me, per se, but there was that story in the New York Post on Tuesday of last week. I assume you saw it?”

“No, Miss Sturluson, I did not. I leave it to my Nolander staff to peruse the tabloids.”

“Good heavens, my dear, really? This won’t do. Well, let me see. I think I still have it somewhere.” She bustled over to a small desk crammed with papers. “No … not here … let me see …”

Yellin watched her shuffling through the stacks. He looked perplexed. Apparently this departed from the usual script.

“Oh, yes, silly me. Here it is.” Sturluson trundled back over to us and handed Yellin a newspaper folded open to an inside page.

He watched her return to her seat, holding the clipping as though he weren’t quite sure what to do with it.

She smiled at him cheerily. “I think you should read it now, my dear.”

Yellin’s look of perplexity deepened into a frown, and he lowered his gaze to the page. His eyes moved quickly over the words, then slowed. I saw him stiffen. Whatever he was reading, he didn’t like it. When he looked back up at Sturluson, his face was pale. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Do you suppose someone’s trying to …” Sturluson turned to me, smiling. “What do you call it when a criminal attempts to blame another for his crime, Miss Ryder?”

“‘Frame’?”