Alex and Lucy locked hands, listening to Calvin’s voice intone the words they had found in the very top of their box from John Dee, wrapped around the jewel. No one else had seen them—not another soul besides themselves. The box had been put by for this hour, this day. It seemed impossible that Calvin should know, and select, the exact words from the secret place. Or perhaps, Alex was thinking, it wasn’t.

When Calvin finished the short verse he offered his toast to the “two as one”; and, after the murmur died down, Amel Azziz too wished to say something, prompted by the atmosphere and the scent of the garden in early evening.

“May I add a toast of my own?” His eyes twinkled in their habitual way, and he looked no less delighted than Henry at the outcome of events. Alex was special to him; and he believed him worthy of Lucy. She had elicited a subtle change in him, and Amel noticed it with pleasure. Raising his own glass, he spoke each word clearly: “‘In the driest, whitest stretch of pain’s infinite desert, I lost my sanity and found this rose.’ The words are from the Sufi poet Rumi, Alex. I think they are apposite.”

He made his salutation, “To Alex and his rose!” and everyone assented.

“Thank you, Amel.” Lucy hugged him with considerable strength.

Oh! The rose, on the box, Grace thought suddenly, and wiped away a tear. She caught her best friend’s eye, looked at her imploringly. While chatter broke out a little between the guests, she asked her, “Lucy, what is in the box after all? Besides the exquisite jewel in your hair? You’ve made us wait for tonight! Didn’t you promise to share it now?”

“I don’t know either yet, Grace. I suspect there’ll be more questions than answers—many important things for us to think about. That’s the real treasure.” She smiled at Alex. “But as to the material contents—I believe it’s almost time for us to find out, as we promised.”

A lady had crossed from the house and spoken with Henry, who now called the gathering to table in the citrus-scented orangerie. Simon and Grace led the party—asking Alex and Lucy to come in last, befitting tradition. Simon and Grace passed every guest a glowing taper to set before them at the long trestle. A row of lights steadily disappeared into the house and were already doubling and redoubling in the glass of the orangerie. Henry escorted Laura last of all, and the ancient boxes—including that with the severed cord, which had bequeathed Alex his “angel”—were silhouetted against the windows.

Alex and Lucy lingered a moment in Diana’s knot garden with champagne. The new Mrs. Stafford spoke.