She was becoming depressed again, even more painfully than before. The hospital room was getting her down. It was beginning to hang on her like a leaden shawl. It was a private institution, luxurious as a decent hotel. She had cheery blue walls here. Prints of boaters, skaters. A bright pattern of swallows, crowfoot and water lilies on the curtains. Her own bureau, her own TV. But it was drab, really, she thought, just under the surface. The furniture spat out by some machine somewhere, browned with a cursory coat of factory shellac—it filled her with distaste. And she felt hemmed in by the icy metal of the bed rails. And made nervous by the brisk padding of the nurse’s soft shoes out in the hall.

But more than anything, she found the place oppressive with the image of her own suicide. The memory—almost the vision—of her own body dangling from the gallery balcony. That picture inhabited the air around her. Her body turning and struggling there. Seconds from dying—dying by mistake—by a terrible mistake. And then Storm had come.

Storm had come. And shattered the door. And run to her. And hauled her up. She still had the bruise on her upper arm from where he’d gripped her.

“What’s he think he’s up to?” Sir Michael said. Bouncing on his toes. Popping, simmering. “Hanging about. Sneaking into your room like that. We’ve offered him money. What does he want?”

She went on toying with her food. Funny, but she knew it would never occur to the Great Man that Storm simply liked her. A lot.

Sir Michael began to pace thoughtfully back and forth across the foot of her bed. Chin down, eyebrows gathered like rain clouds. Musing: “Something American. What do they do over there? Sue each other. Go on chat shows. He can’t be thinking of suing us—not in a British court. And I’ve offered him money.”

Sophia smiled, thinking of the ridiculous Storm. Don’t hang yourself anymore, okay? “He isn’t going to sue us.”

Sir Michael pulled up right before her. “Good God, you don’t think he’d go on a chat show?”

She gave him a look. “No, Daddy.”

“I mean, you haven’t … bared your soul to him or anything.”

“Hardly.”

“Hm. Good. Still, I don’t trust him.” He paced back to the window. Stood there, rocking on his heels. Grandly surveying the scene beyond—whatever it was—Sophia didn’t know, she hadn’t looked. After a moment he said, “He didn’t happen to mention the auction by any chance, did he?”