She shivered through the cold air to the house of the banker who owned the retriever, delivered the dog, and wandered back up the hill, wondering what to do with the couple of hours that remained before her next appointment. It was a mean-spirited day, she thought, with a pinched white sky and a spiteful wind that rattled the bare branches of the trees, not a day to be outdoors for longer than one could help. But Sophie was at home today, on her day off from the coffee shop, and had stated a clear intention of moving no farther than the chair by the fire in the living room; and on the whole, Lulu thought, she would rather face the wind than her younger sister right now. It still left two empty hours, though, she thought disconsolately, huddling her coat closer around herself for warmth.

She could, of course, she thought then, go to her parents’ house. She examined the idea, and the closer she looked at it, the more attractive it became. She could be there in twenty minutes and have more than an hour to spend in the attic with the letters; she could even, she thought, with a faint but perceptible lifting of her heart, give herself at last the pleasure she had withheld for so long and read the last of the New York chapter, the letter in which Grandma Jo would at last win Herr Bhaer’s heart. It would be the perfect time to do it, in fact, she thought. Since her parents were away—off in a snug hotel in Fee’s country’s capital, rediscovering their own love, which had been so threatened—there would be only Lulu in the house for Grandma Jo’s love story, Lulu and the spirit of the long-dead young woman who had been odd and eccentric and whom her older sister had tried so unsuccessfully to make matches for, and who at last, and all on her own, had won the love of a handsome young man with thick yellow hair. Oh, yes, she thought, it was unquestionably time that she allowed herself that particular treat. She would, in fact, buy herself a celebratory bar of chocolate to accompany it. She quickened her step, and when she reached the end of Flask Walk turned, not left towards Belsize Park, but right towards the Tube station.

Nearly an hour later, she sat in the attic, staring in surprise at the piece of paper in her hand.

New York, January 1868.

Dearest Meg,

By now you will have guessed from my silence that my plans for the New-Year’s eve party did not turn out as I had hoped. I made myself sound cheerful in my letter to the family, but the truth is I’m anything but cheerful, Meg. My heart is hurt, I’m sad and lonely, and feeling more foolish than ever before to have dreamed that any gentleman so handsome as Herr Friedrich Boormann could ever have cast sweet glances at one so thorny and plain as me.