Zeno hunched his shoulders and scrunched her further into the seat.

“Blimey—the way you wielded that cut-throat, it didn’t take much working out.”

At Stanley Crescent, the candles had burned out and the garden lights had been switched on, but the guests and hostess had moved inside. Two bottles of champagne were empty, along with the decanter that had hosted the distinguished cognac. The robust Sauterne in the freezer had been overlooked, and lived to please another day. Some port was open and everyone was merry—or drunk, depending on how sober you were. Only the Rose was sober. He would have judged Miranda, Nick and Toby to be merry, Flick and the hostess to be drunk. During the cracking of the port, they had unsealed the envelope giving the prize that Nick had obviously meant to win (his time of twelve hours, forty-five minutes had been edged out by the Rose’s eleven hours, twenty minutes). The prize read “The winner has the honour of deciding the next game, which will be obligatory.”

It was the right moment for a real zinger and everyone waited while the Rose decided. The Captain sloshed some port into his brandy glass.

The Rose paced the length of the drawing room, paused between the open glass doors, and with the moonlit garden framing him, announced: “My game is entitled ‘Statues.’”

“Not a good omen,” said Miranda.

“I won the privilege, did I not?”

“Tell us about the game,” encouraged the hostess. The surgeon placed his hands in his pockets and unveiled the discipline. At any one moment during the evening, he would shout “Stop!” On this command, everyone else would freeze, holding the exact position they were in when they heard the order. As they might not all be in the same place when the game began, everyone would be on their honour to come back into the sitting room if their posture faltered.

“Honour!” trumpeted Nicholas.

“I’ll trust you,” the Rose said. “You look like a man of your word.”

“What’s the prize?” Fleur wanted to know. She was obviously goal-oriented.

“The winner or winners . . .” The Rose paused to give the moment a little relish.

“. . . will choose their own prize,” interjected Miranda.

“As I was about to say . . . will choose their own prize,” said the Rose.

“Oooh,” chortled Fleur, giving the Captain a once-over. Miranda caught Nick’s eye and winked.

“When does it start?” asked Flick.

“The second I give the command. Oh, yes . . . the eyes should stay fixed as well; you remain looking at whatever . . .”

“But what do we do now?” Flick wanted to know.

“Whatever you like, I guess,” said the Rose, breaking his headmasterly stance and coming into the room again. “Nobody said the evening had to be non-stop entertainment. That right, Fleur?”

Fleur smiled her accord. And Miranda, who was feeling the heat, said: “How would a swim grab you, Flick?”