It was much warmer inside, and Sam paused to take off his coat and help Alva out of hers. Handing it to the girl behind the counter, he looked around appraisingly. “It’s very fancy,” he said. “I’m surprised they haven’t gotten kicked out yet. Usually the shine of having the famous Moores to stay wears off after a week or so.”

“It’s because the manager’s fallen in love with Mother,” Benedict said, walking down the stairs into the lobby. “It was after the first explosion. He came up fussing and she sat him down and poured on the … you know … and now he’s putty in her hands.”

“Well, why she couldn’t have done that the time we were kicked out of the one in Kansas at two in the morning—” Sam said.

“The first explosion?” Alva said.

“We’ve had three since then,” Benedict said, a smile lighting up his grave face as he offered her his arm. “Only one big one, but all three caused by the women, Sam, which seriously makes me wonder why women don’t have the entire weapons-design industry on lock-down.”

“Three?” Sam said, falling into step on Alva’s other side as they mounted the stairs. “The man must be completely besotted.”

“Through and through,” Benedict agreed. “He appears at our door three or four times a day, and when Father answers he turns bright red and stammers and looks like he’s about to be pushed in front of a firing squad. Naturally Father has no idea what sins are being contemplated in the little man’s mind. Here we are.”

He pushed open the door to the suite, which bore no sign of the many disasters that had befallen it. The hotel was obviously losing money on this proposition, with all the repairs it was shouldering.

“Sam!” Maggie hurtled across the room and into her brother’s arms, hitting him with enough force that he took two staggering steps backwards.

“Hello, ragamuffin,” he said, easily holding her off the floor and peering over her shoulder at his parents, who approached at a more restrained pace.

“Sam, darling,” Winn said, kissing his cheek. “Mrs. Webster, I’m so glad you could come. You remember my husband, John, and my daughter, Maggie.”

“Of course,” Alva said, smiling politely even as the nerves enthusiastically returned to her stomach. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“We’re all looking forward to hearing about your ghostly progress,” Winn said. “We’ve been able to talk of little else.”

“If only that were true,” Benedict muttered darkly. “I seem to recall forty-five minutes yesterday at dinner on the changing placement of bustles.”