The house was nearly empty; Jake was a little early, as usual. The butler showed him to the ballroom, where the caterers had set up a well-stocked bar at the far end of the parqueted floor. Tomlinson Senior was standing there, a tumbler of whisky in his hand, dressed like George Washington, complete with a white powdered wig.

“And who might you be?” the elder Tomlinson asked, by way of greeting.

“Tycho Brahe,” said Jake.

“Teeko who?”

“Danish astronomer. One of the great ones.” Then Jake remembered that he hadn’t tied on his silver nose. Feeling a little foolish, he fished in his jacket pocket for it.

Alexander Tomlinson gave him a look that was part curiosity and part contempt, then strode past Jake to welcome a pair of new arrivals.

Amy came in, alone. She was dressed as some sort of oriental harem girl, bare shoulders and midriff, slitted silk trousers showing plenty of leg, a jewel in her navel and a filmy veil over her face. She looked very sexy to Jake.

“Salaam,” he said to her.

Amy smiled behind her veil and said, “Don’t tell me. You’re that astronomer who lost his nose in a duel, aren’t you?”

“Tycho Brahe,” Jake agreed.

They ordered drinks from the young bartender who grinned at Jake and ogled Amy; she took a flute of champagne, Jake opted for club soda, thinking about the drive home through the snow.

“How’s our boy?” Jake asked.

“Franklin? He’s fine. He’ll be down in a few minutes; he’s getting into his costume.”

“What’s he coming as?”

“You’ll see,” Amy said, with an impish smile.

Lowering his voice slightly, Jake asked, “How’s his health? He’s been looking pretty tired lately.”

Amy took a sip of her champagne, then replied, “You’d be tired, too, Jake, if you had to run around the state the way he’s been. But his health is fine.”

“Really?”

Her mischievous smile returned. “I can tell you from firsthand experience, there’s nothing wrong with his health.”

“Really,” Jake huffed.

Lots of people were arriving now, and Jake drifted away from Amy. His health is fine, Jake repeated to himself. She ought to know. She’s in bed with him every chance she gets.

Bob Rogers and his wife came in, he in a fringed frontiersman’s buckskins, complete with coonskin cap, she in a frilly colonial dress with voluminous skirts and a low neckline that showed off her plump bosom.

“Professor Ross, you look very handsome,” said Mrs. Rogers, her round face dimpling with good humor. “But that false nose ruins the effect, don’t you think?”

Jake explained the reason for the nose. Mrs. Rogers nodded accommodatingly, then she and her husband moved away. A five-piece combo began playing soft dance music and Jake debated whether he should ask Amy for a dance.