Tom filled his plate and found a place at a table by a window next to a woman in her thirties with dark hair and deep brown eyes set in a long face.

“Tom Doyle,” he said. “From California. I’m Emma’s parents’ lodger.”

“Susan Brooke,” she said. “From Boston. I’m Emma’s thirty-third cousin, or something like that. I think I saw you on the stairs yesterday, but I couldn’t introduce myself because Sophie was telling me a story about her roommate and our aunt Amy and it was kind of like being hypnotized by a very friendly blond windmill.”

“And I think I saw you walking through the hallway the day before, but Lulu had caught me recycling a tea bag and was showing me the correct way to make a proper pot. Who knew it was so complicated?

“Hello, Susan Brooke from Boston,” said Tom. “How are you liking London?”

“I’m loving it,” she said. “I always do. I love London. The person who’s tired of London is tired of life.”

He looked at her with interest. “You’ve read Dr. Johnson,” he said.

“I grew up with him,” she said. “We have a very good copy in the family. My great-great-grandfather was tutor to a rich man’s son, or nephew, or something, and when he married my great-great-grandmother, the rich man gave him his own copy for a wedding present.”

“Interesting wedding gift,” he said. “Not very practical, but interesting.”

“Story is, my great-great-grandmother wasn’t too pleased, but my great-great-grandfather was delighted. He was a big reader, and it passed on down the genes. My parents used to sit and read to themselves over dinner.”

“Did they?” he said. “Wow.” Then, softly, almost to himself, “Wow.”

“How are you feeling?” Fee asked David, watching as Emma glided from table to table, graceful in her silk dress and Josephine shoes, talking, kissing, being admired.

He smiled. “Old,” he said. “And tired. And incredibly stupid for what I nearly did and incredibly lucky that you’ve given me a second chance. But most of all more proud than I’ve ever been of Emma, which I didn’t think was possible. You’ve raised a good woman, Fee.”

She shook her head. “We,” she corrected him. “We’ve raised a very good woman indeed.”

She looked down at her plate for a moment, and then back up at him.

“It’s kind of a pity,” she said slowly then, “that Claire couldn’t be here, too.”

His eyes lit, hopefully.

“She did come, in fact,” he said. “You know I don’t allow her to have money, but she hitchhiked. I sent her away at the door, told her today was for you and me.”

“Well, we’ll see her at home,” said Fee. “How’s her breath these days?”

“Much better,” he said. “She had all her teeth out—well, both of them—so that cleared that up. Her foot’s turned gangrenous, though, but at least it’s a different sort of smell.”

“Ewww.” Sophie, floating past with a glass of champagne, wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Can’t you two keep your spotted old hands off each other at least for a few minutes, at least when we’re out in public?”