“Holmes! Red!” Dot lifted a hand and picked up her pace, leaving Margot behind.

They knew each other? What an odd turn. Margot hurried to keep up, arriving just as Holmes was tipping his hat and bowing a bit at the waist.

“Miss Elton! How do you do? I haven’t seen you for ages.”

Dot held out a hand, beaming. “Not since the war began and you enlisted.” She turned to include Margot in her smile. “Red and Nelson were great friends. And Red worked for my father.”

“What a small world.” She smiled. But she didn’t want to. Not because it wasn’t lovely, that the man she’d decided to trust was indeed trustworthy, an old friend of her new friend. But because she’d done it on her own, on a whim. God hadn’t told her to. He’d given her no indication one way or the other. Her fingers curled into her palm. Was this how it would be from now on? A silent God, leaving her to her own devices?

Holmes still had Dot’s hand pressed between both of his. “I’m so sorry about Nelson. I can’t say how sorry I am.”

“I know. I am too. I still miss him.” She angled a smile toward Margot. “But I’ve learned to go on with the pieces missing.”

He released her hand. “And your brother? How is he? I’ve heard nothing of Elton for several years.”

Dot waved a hand in the general vicinity of her flat. “Home thanks to a gunshot wound, at the moment, but the doctors think he’ll make a full recovery. He’ll be here through Christmas, which is a pleasant change. You ought to come and visit him sometime, I know he’d like that. Oh!” She looked at Margot again, her eyes wide.

Had it been Maman, Margot probably would have been able to read whatever thoughts she was silently shouting. But she didn’t know Dot quite so well yet. She could only lift her brows in response and wait to see what she was thinking.

She didn’t have to wait long. Dot straightened her shoulders and said, “You ought to join us on Saturday. We’re having a small dinner party to celebrate Margot’s birthday. Just us and my brother and her brother and his wife. You’ll give us an even number.”

Six. More even than five, to be sure. It was, Margot supposed, a better number for a dinner party. She saw no particular reason to object.

Aside from the fact that Holmes clearly wasn’t comfortable with it. He glanced down at himself, muttering, “Oh . . . how kind. But I don’t think . . .”