And the house was nothing if not a reflection of its owner. Judy had been ushered into the presence of the magnificent Katherine Massot. The boy, Tom, was nervous; she too, but she would have died before showing it.

Katherine had looked oddly attractive yesterday night, as though, by careful artifice, she had peeled off twenty years; she had crafted something out of the ruins of her beauty. Today, that spell had been broken; Mme Massot was once again an old woman, and instead of beauty, her weapon was elegance, and steely, unassailable dignity.

She was sitting in her parlour, and did not rise to receive them. She wore a dress, peach silk with a lace trim, and a sedate string of lustrous pearls; her white hair was pinned up in a chignon with an old-fashioned lace cap atop it; her face was carefully powdered and made up.

Tom led the way. He brought Judy over to his grandmother, and switching back to French, said, “It is wonderful to see you again. You look beautiful.” Then he kissed her on both cheeks, and turned to Judy. “Grandmother, may I present my friend, Miss Dean.”

Katherine extended a bony claw; Judy fought the urge to curtsey.

“It’s a great honour to meet you, Madame,” she said, reverently.

“I take it this is more than a social call, Thomas? Since you are doing me the honour of introducing me to Miss Dean?”

“It is,” Tom said.

The old lady waved them both to sit down; Judy perched on the edge of the couch. It was, she thought, authentic Louis Qua torze, and might be worth more than her entire apartment.

“I will call for coffee,” Katherine said.

“Thank you, but I dare not. I’ve already had too much today.”

“Miss Dean?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Madame.”

“Then we will move on to sherry. It’s gone eleven.” The old lady nodded to her butler, who disappeared. “And so, Tom, you have something to say to me?”

“It was Judy’s idea, Grandmother,” Tom said, warmly, “and I think it will solve our present dilemma . . .”

Judy sat, her eyes downcast, as the boy explained the plan; she had to admit, he was quick; there was no fumbling, no unnecessary language. He laid it out in simple strokes, faster than she had, and then waited.

She dared to raise her eyes. The old woman was lost in thought. The butler reappeared, offering them all small crystal glasses of sherry; Judy accepted; it seemed the thing to do, and she could always count on a little alcohol to mask her nerves.

She usually despised sherry, but this was, in fact, delicious. It did not surprise Judy that Pierre’s mother would have the best.

“I think it is an excellent idea,” Katherine said at last.

Both her guests felt their heart rate reduce; Judy congratulated herself with another sip of the clear golden nectar.