What followed was almost an hour of near-silent repair work in dark shadows. When the dust had settled, the first man leaped up onto a table and spent some time tinkering with a screwdriver around the overhead light. The other man squeezed into the area behind the counter and gave his attention to a wall light above the shelves mounted on the back wall. About ten minutes later, they edged to the door, clutching the corded box between them. One made a final check of the room—which now showed no signs of disturbance.

The road was deserted and, balancing their cargo carefully between them, they reactivated the alarm before securing the door behind them, utterly shrouded in the darkness of the alley.

THE CARILLON HAD BEEN EXUBERANTLY HERALDING ST. GEORGE’S DAY for a full fifteen minutes. Lucy, almost inaudible against the complex changes of cascading sound, suddenly squeezed Alex’s hand and pointed in the direction of the river with her head. One of the two figures walking toward them had a confident, exaggerated swagger, the sexy elegance of a catwalk model; and Lucy grinned.

It had been an hour after her arrival on Easter Sunday morning, while everyone else was hunting for eggs, that Lucy had found Siân in Will’s bedroom in abject silence, sunk against the headboard. The jacket—rent in two—was laid on the bed. Siân plucked at it.

“I never had a chance to say goodbye,” she’d told Lucy. “He left in such a rage one night—we put off our goodbyes until we weren’t so cross with each other. Then we never got to say those words.”

Lucy had thought of responses she might make, but she’d let the silence speak, allowing Siân to choose a reply, then simply hugged her. After tears and reflections, Lucy gently offered: “Would you let me repair the jacket for you, Siân? I think I can reconcile the halves with neat stitches so you’ll still be able to wear it.” She understood—in ways that would probably have mystified Alex and certainly have infuriated Simon—that the coat would serve as an emblem for that leave-taking between them, a strange memento mori. Siân had held on to her.

So, late on that Easter Day, while Alex took Max and the others sightseeing in Winchester, Lucy had remained behind with Henry and Siân, stitching skillfully. She had found the leather-working tools in Diana’s studio, and quickly learned her way around them. The soothing motion recaptured her hospital days of waiting, and quilting; and she was sentient to the extraordinary change in her fortunes. The contrast with Siân had bothered her—until Henry spoke, allowing Lucy to hear some simple words that had struck Siân dumb.