He looks impressed. I used to love this, the effect proclaiming my profession has: seeing my stock rise in the eyes of the beholder, watching the person reevaluate me. Television news seems to have just the right mix of glamour and edge to intrigue. But these days I find myself feeling a little cheap and showy. “Does that mean you travel a lot?”

“All the time. Totally unglamorous, I’m afraid.” I know from past experience that if I downplay it any further I will sound patronizingly disingenuous, but it’s true: my job is not glamorous. “We do get extra time off for the hours we rack up, though, hence the four months of leave.”

“And you’ll be here for all of that?”

“I’m not quite sure.” I look out over the view again, with the sunshine now glinting off the topmost rocks of one of the craggy peaks across the valley. It’s somehow terrible in its careless, rugged beauty. Though I never spelled out a time frame, I know Jonathan is presuming I will be back in London within a couple of weeks. It’s an understandable assumption, as I’ve never taken more than two weeks off in a row since I started work. Carrie is assuming the opposite end of the range, though I’ve never explicitly told her that, either. Her play is scheduled to run till the end of July, and if she’s still living at the Manse then, I suppose I will be too. If not . . . well, if I go to London it will be to leave it, to depart to cover another story, Jonathan’s field producer once again. “Probably a couple of months,” I say, opting for the middle ground, despite the fact that in this case the middle ground would satisfy no one. Myself included.

He’s frowning again, like he’s chasing down something in his head. “Do I recall hearing something about the Manse? Some kind of local story? Diamonds, or something?”

So it’s confirmed: my family story is now local legend. I don’t know why I hadn’t expected it. Jack’s eyes are clear, devoid of artifice—actually I’m not sure his range extends to artifice. I could easily duck this, turn the conversation elsewhere, but what’s the point? And perhaps I’m still smarting at the concierge’s reaction, ashamed of my own consternation. Perhaps I’m looking for a way to control the story. I opt for a breezy, flippant tone. “Yep. That’s about my father, actually. He worked for a jeweler’s in Edinburgh and disappeared twenty-seven years ago after a diamond-buying trip.” I pause. Jack’s eyes could not be any wider. “With the diamonds. He’s never been found, and nor have they.” His mouth has gaped open now, too. I give him a wry smile. “Go ahead and draw your own conclusions. Plenty of others have.”