She left the attic and went down the stairs to the front door. Coming out of the kitchen and into the hall was Tom.

“Hi,” he said. Then stopped and looked at her. “There’s something different,” he said.

Cocking her newly shorn head, she smiled at him, teasingly.

“It’s a noticing test,” she told him. “You’ve got to guess what it is.”

“Okay,” he said. “A noticing test, huh? I’m man enough to give it a shot.” He squared his shoulders, and studied her, frowning. “I’m pretty sure you haven’t shaved off a beard,” he commented after a moment. “You look good, anyway. Have you maybe lost some weight?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“No weight loss,” he murmured. He frowned some more. “Are you wearing different clothes?” he asked. “No again? Used to have glasses but switched to contact lenses? … You haven’t shaved off a beard, have you?”

“Sort of,” she said. “I’ve had my hair cut.”

“Oh, right!” he said, his face clearing. “So you have, it looks really good. Are you pleased with it?”

“Mostly,” she said. “Although it feels a bit short.”

“Well, it looks great. Buy you a cup of coffee at Carroll’s to celebrate?”

“I’d love to,” she said. “But I have to get back to work. I’ll walk with you to the corner, though.”

“How is work, anyway?” he said as they fought the wind to the corner of the street.

“Quite good, actually,” she said. She thought about the happy toy shop with its friendly owner, and nodded. “It’s not my life’s career, but I am enjoying it. You should come and check out the book section. We’re not too strong on Dr. Johnson, but we’re pretty good on Dr. Seuss.”

He laughed. “I might just do that,” he said. “Next time I get a craving for higher literature.”

They had reached the corner. When they parted, to Lulu’s surprise, he reached down and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“You look really good, Lulu,” he said. “It’s nice to see you looking so happy. I have a feeling something good is going to happen for you soon.”

The following Sunday afternoon, in the dark last weekend of January, Lulu was standing alone in the kitchen of the flat, experimenting with Emma’s wedding cake. She had made the traditional heavy fruit bottom tier several weeks before, and it sat now in a cupboard, wrapped in foil, and happily soaking up a very great deal of brandy. She had tried various combinations for the other two tiers, and had at last decided on a middle tier of the buttery cake that she called Madeira cake and her mother called pound cake packed with glacé cherries, and a top tier of a lighter sponge flavored with coffee and walnuts.

She set out the ingredients on the table, neatly arranged for optimum access, and began to chop the walnuts for the top cake. Lulu liked baking. You knew where you were, she always thought, with baking. There were no questions with baking, like what was she going to do with her career; or how could she afford new winter boots if her old pair completed their disintegration before the spring; or how could Matthew’s mother, Caroline, have once apparently been in love with Matthew’s father, Andrew, and now hate him so intensely; or how could Emma know she was in love with Matthew and Sophie not know that Jamie was in love with her; or might or might not Emma just know better than both Tom and Lulu after all, and be right about Tom being the man that Lulu should fall in love with. Baking was simple, she thought, and certain. You just lit the oven, prepared the ingredients, and followed the rules.