Market stalls stretched along the road in front of the building. She could smell watermelon-scented soap, and glass beads glittered as they hung down from an umbrella. A busker played something by Arcade Fire on his guitar, with a terrier at his feet. People sat in striped deck chairs to listen to him and tossed pieces of bread to the dog.

Liv wiped her forehead with her hand and texted Anthony. Can we meet in the market instead? I’ll be near the hot dog stand.

I’ll be there in 10, he replied.

Liv’s stomach growled when she saw people carrying hot dogs striped with ketchup and mustard, but her nerves meant she couldn’t face eating one. She sat down in a deck chair and soon glimpsed a cobalt jacket weaving through the crowds toward her.

“Gosh, it’s hot,” Anthony said.

“I know. I needed some fresh air,” she said. “Is your father-in-law okay? And Harriet?”

“He’s doing well.” His eyes flicked away.

And your wife? Liv wanted to ask, but didn’t.

“How are you getting along?” he said.

She attempted a smile. “Oh, you know, the usual. Frantic, confused, working hard, lying to my family...”

He smiled sympathetically. “I do know that feeling, and I’m sure you’re coping admirably.”

“I’m trying,” she said. “But I’m running out of time...for everything.”

“There are two months left.” He loosened his tie. “Will you complete the book?”

“I’m determined to. For Essie’s sake, and all her readers. And because I’ll lose my inheritance if I don’t.” She eyed him for a reaction, but his face was expressionless. “It’s strange that Essie gave me something, and also threatened to snatch it away...”

Anthony didn’t speak. He tilted his face toward sunshine.

She wished she could twist a key in his back to make him more animated. “Time’s moving on,” she said, making a ticking motion with her arm. “What happens when the deadline is up?”

It was a question that made her toss and turn in bed at night. When the news of Essie’s death was set free, would she have to return to the recruitment office, or beg the Cardinals for her job back? Essie’s book would be complete, and no one would know about her huge contribution. Like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight, would her new world turn back to rags?

“I’ll probably be in a position to share the contents of Essie’s will with you before her death is announced,” Anthony said. “I’ll work on her obituary, too.”

Liv recalled his attempt to write a sonnet and pursed her lips. “It sounds like you’ve thought of everything. Will there be any kind of service, or a celebration of her life?”

“No. She wouldn’t have wanted that,” he said. “Now, tell me about this journalist. Is she still snooping around?”