SASHA ARRIVED AT HONEYSUCKLE Cottage at half past eight o’clock in the morning, in a taxi from the station. He walked into the breakfast room with the kind of exaggerated care that meant he was still drunk, had probably gone straight to Victoria Station from the Gargoyle Club or wherever he was. Though he reeked of cigarettes, his clothes were remarkably neat, and he greeted Aunt Vivian with a civilized handshake.

“Welcome to Honeysuckle, Aunt Vivian. I’m awfully sorry to turn up like this. Had a work session that went late.”

“So I see. Vivian will do.” She squinted at his face. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you look as if you wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.”

He smiled, and for a moment he was like the old Sasha, hair swinging down onto his forehead, the bluest eyes you ever saw. “I’d be grateful,” he said.

AFTER HE’D DRUNK TWO cups of coffee, wolfed down half a dozen eggs on toast, and charmed the children, Sasha headed upstairs to bathe and change. Iris followed him. He spotted her in the mirror above his dresser while he unbuttoned his shirt.

“Go ahead. Deliver the lecture. I deserve it.”

“Where were you? That’s all I want to know.”

“Out. With friends. That’s all you need to know.”

“I was worried.”

“Were you?” He tossed the shirt in the hamper and stripped off his undershirt, his drawers. “I figured Beauchamp would be keeping you company.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” He started out the door to the bathroom, where the water was already running into the tub, nice and warm.

“You can’t go out in the hall like that! The girls!”

He swore and snatched a dressing gown from the hook. Iris sat on the bed and put her face in her hands. She heard the opening and closing of the bedroom door and lay back across the bed to stare at the simple plaster ceiling. Outside the window, the children played some noisy game on the lawn, and Iris marveled at how easily they’d come together, these cousins who didn’t even know each other—how deep and instinctive is the human need for connection.

She lay there for some time, even though duty tugged her downstairs. She felt paralyzed, unable to move, let alone rise and do all the mothering things. She couldn’t confront Sasha about Nedda Fischer, because she’d have to tell him how she came to see the photograph in the desk. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to. What was the point?

The door creaked open. Sasha’s voice, a touch ironic—Still here?

“Tell me about Zurich,” she said.

He moved to the dresser. “Zurich? Why Zurich?”

“You weren’t just working for the embassy, were you?”