“You’ve spent an awful lot of it in the attic,” remarked Sophie, exhibiting a faintly disturbing tendency she sometimes showed towards mental telepathy.

Lulu contemplated a comment about spiders, but discarded it. The fact was that she had spent a lot of time in the attic, and it would be unrealistic of her to expect her sisters not to have noticed. And one day, she thought now, she would bring down from the attic to share with them the treasure that she had discovered there. Not yet, not quite yet. But one day.

“I’m working on something up there,” she said. “I’ll bring it down soon, maybe for the wedding. It’s not ready yet, but I’ll bring it down soon.”

Watching her middle daughter’s face, Fee moved quickly to distract the others from further questioning.

“What about you, Sophie?” she said. “How do you feel about this year?”

“Well, I’m still alive,” said Sophie. “Which I think is a plus, whatever Lulu says. And apart from nearly dying, I’ve had a good time on the whole: I generally do. Work’s coming along—at least I’m not working at Selfridge’s like I was last year. And, who knows, maybe next year will be the year I get to have a go at the stage.” She stood back and regarded her distribution of the balls with a critical gaze. “I would like to get onto the stage,” she added quietly. “I know you all laugh at me for it, but it’s much more like real acting than television is. And I do quite like acting, actually.”

From the hallway, the letter box rattled as a sheet of paper fell through.

“If that’s the pizza place again,” said Fee, “I’m going to start dropping flyers through their letter box saying ‘Leave Me Alone,’ and see how much they like it. Which reminds me, I haven’t yet opened the Christmas cards.” She got up, went to the table where the day’s pile of post lay, and began to sort through it, murmuring to herself.

“Cousin Susan in Boston, looking forward to the wedding, nice girl. A nice one from Malcolm, I can never remember whether he’s David’s publisher or the man who runs the off-license. A photograph of my friend Bobbie from the collective—good Lord, when did we turn into old ladies? Your aunt Katy, I owe her a phone call, oh, and a lovely one from Charlie, how sweet of her. And … oh.”

There was that in her tone that made her daughters stop what they were doing and look at her. From the pile she took an envelope and held it out to Sophie.

“This is for you,” she said.

The envelope bore the address of the Dorchester Hotel, and the handwriting was Aunt Amy’s.

“Better sit down before you read,” advised Emma.

“I don’t care what she says,” said Sophie. But she had gone a little pale and was biting her lip nervously. “I meant what I said to her, and I’d say it again.”