His grandmother had neglected no detail. Tom had to admit she looked magnificent. A dowager queen of France would have found it hard to outglow Katherine Massot tonight. Her feet were clad snugly in pointed slippers made from antique Chinese silver brocade, shot through with gold thread worked into birds and dragons; her bony hands were concealed in pure white calfskin gloves from Hermès, and her whole body was wrapped in a hooded cloak of gunmetal cashmere, perfectly soft and luxurious. When she removed the gloves, the long sleeves of her ball gown ended in silver lace that would cover the backs of her hands; and as for her fingers, which could not be completely hidden away, Katherine had chosen gems that would distract any eye: on her left hand, a flower worked in flawless marquise diamonds; on her right, the Tiger’s Eye ruby, a Massot signature—a huge oval Burmese, pigeon’s blood red, perfectly translucent; a fourteen-carat stone set between two three-carat light green sapphires.

Her bag was a beautiful pouch of silver satin with a white gold handle, secured to her slender wrist by a silken thread, and she was tapping her ubiquitous ivory fan against her knee, thoughtlessly.

Tom was glad to see the fan. It provided the only familiarity in his grandmother’s appearance. Katherine’s magnificence tonight was unmistakably scored with malice. He had mentioned to her that he hoped they would not embarrass Maman, and that Papa wouldn’t have chosen any scandal, and Katherine had said, “Of course,” coldly and superbly; that was the sum total of his conversation on the subject.

He shifted in the back of the car, his mind ticking. They were approaching rue Faubourg, for which he thanked God. Tom was sure tonight was going to be miserable, and he wanted to get it over with.

His mother had been trying to reach him. She had somehow got hold of the unlisted telephone number at the flat and had left him five messages, with entreaty in her voice that plucked at his heartstrings. He wasn’t quite ready to talk to her, had screened out the calls.

But although it felt disloyal to Grandmother, who had offered her help when he needed it, perhaps he would take the opportunity tonight. Draw his mother aside into some corner, talk to her, become friends again. If Maman had betrayed Papa, declaring him dead, refusing to wait a few years—even devaluing the stock—he still had to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Tom missed his mother. The more time he spent with Katherine, the more he missed those things he had previously dismissed, latterly, even despised—Sophie’s warmth, her calmness, her demonstrative love of him. She was gentle, and her son had mistaken it for stupidity.