Nick finished typing and plonked his phone next to his breakfast plate. “Thank you for not saying whatever verb you were actually thinking.”

“It’s too early for that verb,” Freddie said, spearing a sausage link more aggressively than was strictly necessary.

“What did Daphne say?” I asked.

Freddie pointed at his mouth, then chewed exaggeratedly before washing it all down with some orange juice. “She said she’s very excited for me to get home and rescue her from conversations with Lax about her honeymoon trousseau,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You’re really not going to tell her?” Nick asked. Next to his coffee cup, his phone buzzed, and we all peered at it. “Gaz,” he said. “He wants to bring over cake. Ugh, I could use some cake right now, but he’ll know the instant he sees our faces that something is going on.”

“And yet you’re still surprised I haven’t told Daphne?” Freddie asked.

“We aren’t engaged to Gaz,” I pointed out.

“Don’t tell Gaz that,” Freddie joked, but he wasn’t smiling. He rubbed at his temples. “I will tell Daphne when or if there is something to tell.”

“You’re saying there isn’t enough to tell her already?” Nick asked. His eyebrows were very high on his forehead.

“Daphne’s not in this, the way we are,” Freddie said. “There’s a lot of backstory here that’s very private.” He held up a hand. “I know she’s my fiancée. I know. But this is personal.”

“So is being married,” I said. “She thinks you have no secrets.”

“They aren’t my stupid secrets to begin with.” Freddie kicked at the table leg. “Besides, how’s she going to find out?”

“That depends on us, I suppose,” Nick said. “Or on whatever Father does.”

“He’s not going to blow this up,” Freddie said. “Is he? No…?”

The three of us could only shrug at each other. Richard had a ticket out if he wanted it. But not one of us knew the truths of Richard’s inner workings, and whether he’d ever wished for even a second—as Nick and Freddie had—to be free of all this.

“I’ll deal with Daphne then,” Freddie eventually said, stabbing his waffle. “If I have to.”

Nick’s phone buzzed. He picked it up and stared at it, confused.

“Is it Richard?” I asked. “What did he say?”

Nick flipped his phone around to show us. His text to Richard had been kind: I know that conversation was terribly hard. We’d love to talk to you about it. I hope you’re all right. Richard’s reply was a GIF in which Jeff Bridges’s character in The Big Lebowski fishes a pair of sunglasses out of his cardigan pocket and jams them onto his face. That was it.

“What does that mean?” I asked.