“Show him in, Withers,” she tells him, at last showing a modicum of interest. Indeed, my marriage is perhaps the only subject for which she has any enthusiasm, it seems.

Louis brings his customary energy and sense of purpose with him into the room. He greets us with easy charm and succeeds in eliciting a smile from my mother. Fifteen minutes of pointless chat and Mama’s determination to turn every minute of the conversation around to who is marrying whom, are more than I can stand.

“It is too lovely a day to be indoors,” I say, rising again. “Louis, would you like to sit awhile in the garden?”

“If Lady Annabel can be persuaded to join us,” he answers with convincing sincerity.

As if my mother would ruin this opportunity for you to speak to me alone. I think not.

“Oh, no.” Mama, suddenly the frail dowager duchess, sinks a little deeper into the cushions of the sofa. “I shall be quite content to remain here in the cool. You two young things go out. Run along now, I insist,” she says, waving us away.

Outside the air still retains a morning freshness, though the sun is bright and the sky a cloudless stretch of blue above us. In the rigorously tended flower beds lilies and pinks bloom quietly and sweetly, but the sunshine sets the orange petals of the tiger lilies alight and causes the blue of the giant ceanothus on the south wall to sing. I lead Louis along the narrow gravel path, up the broad stone steps, past the little pond and its trickling fountain, and up to the paved corner with wrought-iron table and chairs. Someone has had the foresight to open the sun parasol, so that a pool of shade covers the seating area. Iago is stretched out on the warm stones, luxuriating in the sunshine. I stoop to stroke him as I pass, his gleaming fur almost too hot to touch comfortably.

“You foolish puss,” I tell him, “you’ll cook yourself.” I choose a chair in the shade and sit down. Louis takes the seat next to me. My eye is caught by the small rose bed to the left of the table. Mama was right, it is late for roses. Most blooms are starting to wither, petals crisping in the heat. Father would have had words with the gardener for not seeing to them sooner. No one wants to look at death while they sip their lemonade. No one save a necromancer, maybe. Who else can see the beauty in decay?