“No, no.” He took her arm. “I’ve already dispatched my minions.” The two women who had knelt to retrieve the shards glared up at him: a man plummeting into middle age like a bomb, shaped like a bomb, squat-bottomed, potbellied in his green suit and waistcoat. A serpentine, cynical face deeply scored by Bell’s and Rothmans. Shaggy gray hair dropping dandruff. Cigarette dropping ash. “And anyway, I rent the place,” he said. And he led her gently from the room.

Storm watched—bleakly—as the two of them turned out of sight down the front hall. He could hear their voices receding.

“I am sorry, Frederick, I shouldn’t have come, I’m just knackered. I was in Ohio yesterday, and Berlin last week …”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I live for your visits. I’ll save the pieces as a relic. I’ll build a shrine on the spot …”

Someone clapped Storm on the shoulder. Someone else said, “Well read. Spooky stuff. You put the wind up her anyway.”

“Who is she?” Storm murmured, staring at the place where she had stood.

And someone answered: “Oh, that—that’s Sophia Endering. Her father owns the Endering Gallery in New Bond Street. Not half bad, eh?”

Storm nodded. Remained on his feet a few moments more, his gaze now wandering aimlessly over the room. A cozy alcove, chairs clustered together, run-of-the-mill pseudo-Victorian prints hung above low shelves of frazzled paperbacks. A wide archway into the long sitting room where the Christmas tree sparkled and the gas fire burbled and recessed lights beamed on bottles of white wine. And where the group that had gathered to hear him read was now dispersing. And the party conversation was resuming.

Above the rising chatter, he heard the front door shut. He could feel it: she was gone. He sank slowly back into his chair.

Sophia Endering, he thought. He sat there with the book held slack on his thigh, his thumb holding the place for no good reason. Sophia Endering.

But what difference did it make? It didn’t matter now. He was not in love with her. He could not be in love with her. He could not be in love with anyone.

He sat there, silent, slumped, withdrawn again into his unhappy depths.

2

But why? thought Harper Albright. Why should he be so sad?