Like servants do, thought Sadie, who’d read enough books about English girls in peril to wonder whether she was about to be shut in an attic.

Until recently the house had been owned and occupied by a single old man, who had died alone in one of the bedrooms. Somebody, perhaps the old man when he was a young man, had painted the walls with vivid tempera, which gave the rooms the intense look of Renaissance frescoes, brand-new, ancient, like marriage itself. The old man’s bedroom was blue. Lapis lazuli, thought Sadie. Had his family died? His wife, his children? But the old man had never married: it had been his parents and brother and sisters who had died or disappeared, one at a time. That was family, too. No man who’d ever been married could have died thus: alone but perfectly happy in his bed, a portrait of the Virgin Mary hung at a tilt over his head so he didn’t have to hurt his neck to look at her.

“Sad to die alone,” said Sadie.

“How do you know?” asked Eloise. She set the dog on the ground. He sniffed at the threshold of the room but didn’t go in. “I’m longing for it. But instead I will be surrounded by my children and grandchildren.”

“Oh!” said Sadie. “You have children.”

“Grown,” said Eloise. “Elsewhere.” Then, in an exaggerated English accent, though her own accent was already extremely English, “Gawn.”

Sadie noticed her suitcase in the corner of the room, Jack’s duffel next to it. The bags had been repacked, zipped up. She hoped it had been Jack who’d done it. She suspected it wasn’t.

Half the rooms were derelict and half under construction and absolutely nothing was finished. There were sinks in odd places, unhinged doors leaning on walls. The floors were wood, dusty, any varnish worn away. Everything felt precarious but also beautiful, an excellent place, thought Sadie, for starting a life together.

“What did you get as a present?” Eloise asked.

Sadie was happy to say. It had been her idea. “A guest book,” she said. They had ordered it from Smythson’s. It was leather-bound with the name of the house—Currock House—stamped in gold on the cover.

“What?” said Eloise.

Sadie didn’t know what misstep she’d made. Were you not supposed to say wedding presents before the wedding? But Eloise had asked!

“That’s what I got,” said Eloise. “You’ll have to get something else.”

“Well,” said Sadie.

“Lottie’s invited,” said Eloise suddenly, as though the matter had been settled. “I’m sure Lenny said.”

“The clown?”

At that Eloise laughed. It was a disconcerting laugh: you could see her tongue move with every peal, a rapid clapper in a bell. “Not a clown, no.”

“Oh, that’s right. Puppets. Right?”

“You don’t know about Lottie! He worshipped her. But I’m sure he’s told you.”