Yawning, Sam reached into the bag and started to count the rolls out.

It had been a long twenty-four hours. Alva might have gone, but her presence remained; even the delicate perfume she wore lingered in the air. He’d needed to think and he thought best when he worked, so he’d flung himself into his research with abandon. He’d finished every baseline reading he could think of. He’d designed new equipment, knocked some prototypes together, disemboweled and reassembled three existing machines. He’d read math problems aloud in every room on the ground floor. He’d tapped patterns on the wall until his knuckles hurt. And he hadn’t noticed it until now, but he was … exhausted. Spent. And not much clearer on, well, on any of his problems.

“Hey, I said three, not half a dozen.”

“Sorry.”

“Here’s your stew.” Henry handed the mounded plate across, and for a few minutes they sat in friendly silence, chewing and making the occasional appreciative grunt.

“I ran into Alva Webster at the reading room.” There was a long pause. “Sam?”

“Huh?”

“You look like a sixteen-year-old thinking about his first girl.”

He shrugged. “Sorry. You saw Alva?”

“When I went to pick up that book from St. James’. She was reading it when I got there.”

“Hah! That’s Alva Webster for you. She doesn’t believe in ghosts, but she’s damn well going to be prepared for them.” He frowned. “You didn’t take the book away from her, did you?”

“I arranged a shared custody agreement, but we get it first.”

“How did she look?”

“Beautiful. She’s a lovely woman.”

“Oh lord. You flirted with her, didn’t you?”

It was Henry’s turn to shrug, an insouciant little gesture accompanied by the slightest hint of a smirk.

“You did. First my housemaid, then my … my … Alva. What next, my ghost?”

“So much whining. Are we or are we not getting hot tea regularly?”

“Only when you’re in the house,” Sam grumbled. “No more flirting with—”

“With your Alva?”

“With Alva. Who belongs entirely to herself.”

“I wouldn’t worry about the striking Mrs. Webster,” Henry said, his grin spreading. “My read was that she’s well able to take care of herself.”

Sam sighed. “She’s wonderful, isn’t she?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what again?”

“Looking like a moonstruck idiot. It’s putting me off my food.”

“Sorry.”

They cleared their plates, sitting back in their chairs with the air of men well contented.

“Are you working more tonight?” Henry asked, rooting into another bag and producing some cookies.

“A few more hours.”

“You need to sleep.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You’re no good to me dead.”

“True. I’m leaving my collection of useless metallic doodads to Maggie anyway.”