“Richard,” she pronounced gently, coming to stand beside him. Her tone made him look at her, look into her thick glasses for a moment. But he couldn’t hold her sharp gaze. He turned away. “There is no need to approach her in this fashion, to question her about this.” Storm didn’t answer. “You could simply ask her for a date.”

“It’s not about that,” he muttered, without any conviction at all. “It’s just good journalism, Harper. There might be a connection here. It’s a legitimate story …” His voice trailed into silence.

Harper sighed again. Placed the pipe in her mouth. “As you like,” she said then. She took a brief pace, away from him, back. “But in that case,” she said, “in any case, there is something you should know.”

Storm bridled, seemed about to object. Harper pushed on regardless.

“Sophia Endering is the product and the proof of her father’s ascension to the upper classes,” she said. “I know—you may not think that counts for much nowadays, but it counts with him. It counts a good deal. Sophia’s education, her social standing, even her appearance—these are the old man’s bona fides. She has been raised, in a sense, to maintain and protect his position. And she is very, very good at it. The woman is cool, smart, close-mouthed. She has a glance, I’m told, that can turn an intruder to sand. There are no men in her life, despite her beauty. There is no one to whom she entrusts her secrets.”

Storm lifted his chin at her. “Yeah. Okay,” he said. “So what?”

“So, given her history, it is safe to assume that, if she has a heart at all, it is held in check with considerable force. And if ever she is deprived of her monumental defenses, my guess is you will find her to be as fragile as bliss—and every bit as precious.”

“Historeeee, Richard, historrreeee,” Bernard mimicked her when Storm had gone. “A historreee cloaked in mistorrreeee.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Harper grumbled.

She was standing at the window now. Leaning on her dragon stick. Touching her pipe to her lip meditatively. Frowning deeply at the misted panes.

Behind her, Bernard had tilted back from his keyboard, had folded his arms over his thick woolen jumper. He was regarding her with infuriating drollness, she knew, tongue in his seraphic cheek, one eyebrow cocked.

“You didn’t tell him all of it, did you?” he said.

Harper humphed. “I told him what he needed to know.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, darling,” Bernard said.

She humphed again. Stared at the window pane resolutely. Darts of rain on a sheet of condensation. A blurry swatch of the outdoors through one broad runnel. The narrow street below, the brick houses homily lit across the way. The corner entrance to The Sign of the Crane smokily enticing.