1. Estelle

1

Estelle

I was to be Mrs. Wainwright. My latest false name. I was no longer Estelle Sullivan, my God-given name, or the second name I'd assumed, Stella McCord. Now, I would be Mrs. Estelle Wainwright. If I were to continue this way, I'd have a dozen of them before I went to meet my maker.

My new role as Mrs. Wainwright, a pious, respectable widow living alone in New York City, could not be further from the truth. In reality, I was an unmarried woman who had given birth to an illegitimate daughter. I'd been forced to give my infant to my twin sister and her husband, who would raise her as their own. As Mrs. Wainwright, I was to live in the apartment provided by my benefactor, Percival Bancroft.

One tiny detail? I happened to have fallen in love with Percival. A married man. One who remained faithful to his mentally ill wife, even though she was under close watch and care at an asylum for the insane, instead of by his side, helping to raise their daughter.

However, I could not allow the facts to take away from the relief that came from a warm place to stay and a full belly. The months since I'd been on my own, I'd not been at all certain I would not die alone on the streets of this dangerous city.

Therefore, I found myself on the evening of Christmas in the year 1922 in an opulent apartment in Upper Manhattan, with my new name and only Penelope, my maid from the time I was staying with the Bancrofts, as a familiar face. She had been sent over to care for me, as well as a cook, both provided by the Bancrofts. For all intents and purposes, I was a kept woman. Or, at least, that's what it would look like to anyone who didn't understand the honorable nature of Percival Bancroft. In exchange for his generosity, he expected only friendship and the pleasure of my company for dinner on Saturday evenings.

At the sound of rapping on the front door, I hurried across the room to the foyer, expecting to welcome Mrs. Landry, my new cook, of whom I knew nothing other than that she'd been trained by Mrs. Bancroft's cook and that her husband had perished in the Great War.

I don't know what I'd expected, but it was not the young woman in front of me now. Older than I by about ten years, if I were to guess, she possessed a head of thick hair the glossy color of which evoked images of the butterscotch candies I'd so delighted over as a youngster, broad cheekbones, light green eyes, and a small mouth. She carried a basket slung over one arm.

"You must be Mrs. Landry?" I asked.

"Yes ma'am."

"I'm Mrs. Wainwright," I said, the name so foreign in my mouth. "Welcome and Merry Christmas."

"Thank you, I'm pleased to be here," Mrs. Landry said.

Penelope's brown eyes shone from her round face as she greeted her. "I'm Penelope, the miss's maid."

Mrs. Landry bobbed her head. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. My apologies for not being here to welcome you earlier. I wanted to get to the market before they closed, but I had no luck. I'm afraid you'll have to dine on bread and cheese tonight. I'm terribly sorry."

"It's no trouble at all," I said. "Considering how little I've had to eat over the last few weeks, any food at all is welcome. Anyway, you didn't have much notice of my arrival. Dr. Bancroft has left a bottle of champagne on ice." I gestured toward the bar cabinet. "Between that, bread, and cheese, I'd say we're having a feast. Shall we pop the cork and enjoy a Christmas toast?"

"Champagne? With us?" Mrs. Landry asked, sounding scandalized. "I haven't seen a bottle of champagne in quite some time."

"Even during Prohibition, somehow people find it in their cellars. Regardless, it's Christmas, and I'm all alone in a new place, as are you two. We should enjoy a glass by the fire, don't you agree? Unless you'd rather not?"

"No, I'd love to. It's unexpected, that's all." Mrs. Landry's mouth lifted into a shy smile. "I'll be right back to open the bottle."

"Please, allow me," Penelope said. "While you put everything away in the kitchen."

"Thank you. I shan't be long." Mrs. Landry shrugged out of her coat, slung it over her other arm, and headed toward the kitchen, leaving me with Penelope.

"Mrs. Wainwright. That'll take some getting used to, miss," Penelope whispered.

"For me too," I said. "Regardless, I'm pleased to see you. I wasn't sure I'd lay eyes upon you again."

"I was devastated when they told me they'd sent you away."

"Is that what they said? Sent me away?" Although it was the truth, it bothered me to hear it described thus.

"No, they didn't tell us anything other than you'd left. However, a few of the staff overheard the goings-on and reported it back to the rest of us."

Nothing went unnoticed by the servants. This had not been unknown to me previously. I'd been raised in a house with dozens of staff. My twin sister and I had been aware of the ways they'd gossiped about my family and others.

"It was that brother, wasn't it?" Penelope asked. "Simon Price? Was he the one who made them send you away?"

"I'm afraid so," I said. Simon was Perceval's brother-in-law. When he'd discovered who I really was, he'd told the Bancrofts, and they'd been forced to ask me to leave. I could not blame them, given the nature of the complicated web between our two families. Had I known that the day I met Percival on the train, I would not have allowed myself to follow him home or be nursed back to health by his mother.

I wouldn't think of any of that now. A roaring fire in the hearth warmed the room. We had champagne and a lovely, if simple, supper to enjoy. Just yesterday, I'd been contemplating going to work in a brothel. Safety and warmth were welcome gifts despite the complex reasons behind them.

Penelope popped the cork from the champagne bottle. Soon, she'd poured three glasses and had them arranged neatly on the coffee table by the fire. Mrs. Landry returned with a tray carrying a fresh loaf of bread, a chunk of creamy cheese, and slices of ham.

"Please sit," I said. "For tonight, we'll not worry about protocol. I'd be appreciative of the company."

They obeyed as if I were the lady of the house, which I suppose I was—a far cry from the life of destitution I'd faced only days before.

"First, a toast. To having a warm place to sleep and full stomachs," I said, raising my glass.

We clinked glasses and took sips of the bubbly wine that tickled my nose.

Soon, we'd devoured most of the food. Apparently, I wasn't the only hungry one. It made me wonder. What kinds of lives did they have before Percival hired them?

"I'd like to be up-front about something," I said. "Unfortunately, I'm going to have to pretend to be someone I'm not. But I'd rather not do that in my own home. Doctor Bancroft has assured me you're discreet, Mrs. Landry?"

"Yes, ma'am." Mrs. Landry's high cheekbones flushed pink. "At my last position, the housekeeper insisted on discretion. She allowed no gossip in or out of the house. Regardless, I have no one to tell. As you may know, my husband was killed in the war. I have no children. My mother and father passed away years ago."

"I'm sorry about your husband," I said.

"Thank you. It's been a difficult several years," Mrs. Landry said. "A few months back, I was dismissed."

"May I ask why?" I asked. "Whatever you say, I promise not to think poorly of you."

Pink dotted her cheeks as she lowered her gaze. "I'd rather not say."

"You can say whatever it is," Penelope said. "Miss Stella won't think any worse of you. She's not that way."

"No, I most certainly will not. I have a sordid tale of my own."

Mrs. Landry sighed and looked as if she were about to burst into tears. "The master of the house expected certain things I did not wish to give him."

"Oh, yes, I see," I said with a sigh. "I'm sorry. I can safely say I will not expect anything of the sort."

Penelope giggled, which caused me to follow suit. A second later, Mrs. Landry did the same.

"Doctor Bancroft has told the landlord and other tenants that I am Stella Wainwright. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to be part of my lie. Mrs. Wainwright is a wealthy widow with no children. This is the only way I could seem respectable."

"Societal rules that have no base in truth," Mrs. Landry said rather hotly.

"I do agree," I said, smiling.

"How did your pretend husband die?" Penelope asked, reaching for a piece of cheese.

"Goodness me, we didn't decide that," I said sheepishly. "Dr. Bancroft and I only came up with the story this morning. It's not well-plotted, as you can see."

"Spanish flu?" Mrs. Landry suggested.

"Excellent idea," I said. "Poor Mr. Wainwright. He was such a good man."

More giggling.

"What are we to say about where you come from? Your family and all that?" Mrs. Landry asked, leaning forward expectedly, clearly interested in the game of it all. This gave me some relief, as I was worried it would hurt her to hear of a dead husband who never existed when she had a very real one who had.

"It's vague," I said. "I'm from a wealthy family no one's heard of, which is preferable to the one I had."

"Had?" Mrs. Landry asked.

"Let's have some more champagne," I said, reaching for the bottle.

"No, miss, you must allow me to pour," Penelope said. "Please, I have to earn my keep."

"By all means," I said, pulling my hand from the bottle.

"Since you were up-front with me, I shall do the same," I said. "My story's rather long and sad, but here it is," I told them about my dead fiancé, who had left me with child. "Because of this, I had no choice but to give my infant daughter to my twin sister and to start a new life here in the city." I left out the part about my father being a gangster. That could wait for another time. I didn't want to scare either of them away.

"What about your family? Did they discard you?" Mrs. Landry asked.

"Yes, I'm not welcome to return. I was left with nothing and forced to start a new life here in the city. Having just given birth, I got on the train heading here. Fortunately, kind Dr. Bancroft offered to help me, taking me home with him. Mrs. Bancroft nursed me back to health. When I was well enough, I began to assist Mrs. Bancroft in her volunteer work looking after the poor and infirm in some of the poorest neighborhoods in the city."

"I, too, lost a baby," Mrs. Landry said quietly. "Stillbirth. John, my husband, was already overseas by then. I've no family, leaving me alone to grieve."

"I'm sorry," I said. "That's horrific. And very sad."

Mrs. Landry used a napkin to dab at the corners of her eyes. "Yes, it was. The last few years have been hard."

"You're here now," I said.

"By the grace of God," Mrs. Landry said. "Why are you no longer staying with the Bancrofts?"

"For reasons I cannot go into now, the Bancrofts had to ask me to leave. I spent months trying to find work but had no luck. Finally, I was forced to consider working in a brothel."

"No, miss." Penelope gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth.

"Yes. That's where Doctor Bancroft found me." I grew warm, remembering his reaction when he'd found me there. He'd been angry and appalled, both of which led him to offer me this place to live. "He offered this apartment so that I wouldn't have to do such a terrible thing to keep from starving."

Mrs. Landry and Penelope exchanged a glance.

"It's not what you think," I said. "Dr. Bancroft takes his marriage vows as sacred. He's asked only for friendship in exchange for taking care of me, for which I'm grateful."

"I've never heard of such a thing before now," Penelope mumbled under her breath. "Men are not usually so benevolent."

"He's a remarkable man," I said.

Falling in love with another woman's husband was never what I'd imagined for myself when I was a little girl. No one would wish to be tortured in such a way. Pining for a man married to another was an endless ache, a combination of guilt, self-hatred, and longing that threatened to smother me each and every day. Regardless, Percival and I had agreed that we could not act on our feelings. To do so would hurt too many people. Worse, it would be a betrayal of his marriage vows, taken before God. Neither of us could be that selfish, even though I wished more than anything he could be by my side.

I'd not thought it possible to fall in love again after I lost Constantine. However, during the months I spent in the Bancroft house, I came to understand that the human heart had a remarkable capacity for love, even after such a tremendous loss.

"What about you, Penelope?" Mrs. Landry asked. "How did you find yourself here?"

"I have a big, rambunctious family, but they live far away. I send them money whenever I can. With seven children, not including me, now that I'm on my own. It has not been easy for my father to provide for us."

"What is it that he does for a living?" Mrs. Landry asked.

"We have a small farm in upstate New York. Some years have been better than others. Now that I can send part of my salary home, it's been easier for them."

"You must miss them," I said softly.

"I do." Penelope gazed into her glass. "But I cannot dwell on my lonesomeness, only my blessings." She went on to explain to Mrs. Landry that she had been hired by the Bancrofts and had been delighted when they asked if she would like to work for me and live here at the apartment.

"I've never worked for only one member of a household," Mrs. Landry said. "I'm more accustomed to a full kitchen."

"I hope you won't be bored," I said.

"No, ma'am, I'm sure I won't be."

We were interrupted by a knock on the front door. "Who could that be?" I asked out loud. "No one knows I'm here."

Both my companions shot up as if suddenly pushed from behind.

Penelope smoothed her dress. "I'll answer. I hope whomever it is does not smell the champagne on my breath." Her eyes widened. "What if it's a cop?"

"I doubt that," I said. "But we'll hide the hooch if we need to." I must have been slightly tipsy, as I suddenly found myself very amusing.

Penelope hustled to the front door and opened it, with me following closely behind. A young man stood there, dressed in a shabby suit. Still, it was finely cut and made of good material, hinting at better times.

"May I help you, sir?" Penelope asked.

"I reside across the hallway. I come to welcome you to the building and wish you all a Merry Christmas."

I gestured for him to step inside from the cold, drafty hallway. "Do come in. I'm…Mrs. Wainwright."

"It's a pleasure to meet you." The man held out his hand. "I'm Joseph Foster. Welcome to the building."

I took a good look at him. Slight and of medium height, he appeared to be in his mid-thirties, with wavy light brown hair and gray eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. His worn shoes had been polished, but it was obvious they were as old as his suit. How did he afford to live in this building? This was one of the finest in the city, with views of the river.

"Thank you. Would you care for some champagne and something to eat?" I asked. "We're enjoying bread and cheese."

He swallowed and seemed on the verge of declining, but I insisted. The hunger in his eyes was unmistakable.

I introduced him to Mrs. Landry, who stood near the fire, looking uneasy.

"Since it's Christmas, we're all sitting down together," I said to Mr. Foster. Hopefully, he would not think this strange. To his credit, if he did, it certainly didn't show in his face. "Please do sit."

Penelope had already gone to the cabinet for another glass.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Landry had started to inch toward the kitchen. I stopped her, calling out to come back and enjoy the rest of her champagne.

Looking as if I'd required her to walk toward the gallows, she did as I asked.

When we were all settled, and Mr. Foster had a plate piled with bread and cheese, I asked how long he'd lived in the building.

"All my life. My grandfather owned the apartment for decades. He left it to my father. My father left it to me. It's all I have left if you want to know the truth."

"And what is it you do for a living, Mr. Foster?" I asked.

"Please, call me Joseph."

"Joseph, please share with us what you do," I said again.

"I'm a reporter for The New York Times . The obituary section." This last part was said with a noted degree of humility. In fact, he seemed embarrassed.

That explained his meager attire. Obituary writers were known to make less than other reporters, who frankly didn't make much either.

"I'm also working on a novel." Joseph pushed his spectacles further up his nose. He was nice-looking, I decided, if not particularly striking. There was a sensitivity in his eyes that I fancied mirrored his soul. It did not surprise me in the least that he'd chosen writing as a profession, as he seemed the type to possess keen observational skills. I'd never thought about writing myself, but knew from my love of reading that authors had a fine sense of detail.

"How is the novel coming along?" I asked.

"Slow," he said. "One sentence at a time. If you hear the click-clack of a typewriter, that's me."

"What kind of story? Is it a mystery?" Penelope asked, eyes shining and cheeks flushed from the champagne. "I love mysteries. Have you read The Mysterious Affair at Styles ?"

Joseph nodded, seemingly pleased by her enthusiasm. "I have indeed, but I'm not writing a mystery. Rather, it's a family saga about a man who loses his fortune through a series of bad decisions. I admit this with utter mortification, but it's based on my own family. My father, mostly."

Penelope's brow wrinkled as if she had not understood a word he said. Mrs. Landry, on the other hand, had not taken her eyes off him.

"It sounds fascinating," Mrs. Landry said, smiling. "Are any of your characters the family cook?"

I chuckled, amused by the color in her cheeks, which matched Penelope's quite well. The champagne had gone to our heads. I'd not felt this good in ages.

"No, I cannot say I have the cook's point of view in the book," Joseph said. "But perhaps I should revisit that idea?"

"If you need any information about what it's really like to cook for a wealthy family, do let me know," Mrs. Landry said.

"I will indeed." They smiled at each other for a few seconds, seeming to have forgotten the existence of myself and Penelope. Smitten? How wonderful it would be if they were to fall in love right under my nose. Someone should be happy. If not me, then perhaps Mrs. Landry.

I was struck with an idea. "We should have a book society."

"What, may I ask, is a book society?" Penelope smiled, her dimples making small indentations on both sides of her mouth. There was a quality about Penelope, with her white-blond hair and wide-set eyes, that reminded me of a small fairy that might live in a tree. As children, my sister and I had enjoyed many hours of play in our secret garden, where we imagined fairies living in the hollows of trees.

"It's a meeting of sorts," I said. "Where friends all agree to read the same book and discuss it over tea or sherry." I wasn't entirely sure if this was a common practice, but it seemed like a wonderful idea. Determined to make a life for myself comprising more than hours and hours isolated in my apartment, I had to be creative. For such a long time it had felt as if my life were over, but Percival had given me a new one.

"This sounds like a splendid idea," Joseph said.

"I'd enjoy being included too," Mrs. Landry said.

"What about Mr. Landry?" Joseph asked. "Does he enjoy reading?"

"I'm afraid he's passed away." Mrs. Landry glanced toward the fire. "In the war."

"My sincere condolences," Joseph said. "And you, Mrs. Wainwright? Do you have a Mr. Wainwright hidden somewhere?" I knew from the way he asked the question with just a slight edge—like one might expect from a detective—that he'd seen Percival and me arrive earlier.

"My husband died of the Spanish flu." I did not have to pretend to grieve, simply replacing the loss of my daughter and family for the pretend husband.

"Again, my condolences." Joseph tugged at his left ear. "May I ask who escorted you in this afternoon?"

"That is…my godfather." Where had that come from? He was much too young to be my godfather unless he'd been granted that role when he was ten years old. I suppose that was possible. Oh, these tangled webs I wove were already starting to unravel. "He promised my family he'd look out for me. They're dead too." I blurted that last part out. Acting, clearly, was not one of my gifts.

"And you, Mr. Foster?" Penelope asked, saving me from saying anything further. "Do you have any family left?"

"No. My mother died when I was young, and my father about ten years ago. He was fond of drink."

"That settles it, then," I said. "We shall be a society of lonesome book lovers."

"I have a few friends who might like to join us," Joseph said. "If that is all right?"

"Yes, of course." I pushed the tray closer to him. "Please, eat. It's Christmas."

"Shall I open more champagne, miss?" Penelope asked. "Dr. Bancroft left several more bottles."

"Why not? We must eat and drink and be merry."

For the next fifteen minutes, we chatted about less serious things than our misfortunes. Joseph told us a little about his work at the newspaper. Penelope coaxed into a relaxed state, shared more about her family and the hilarious antics of her five brothers and two sisters.

By nine, the bread and cheese were gone, and Mrs. Landry insisted we allow her to make us each an omelet. The next thing I knew, we were all in the kitchen. The three of us gathered around the small wooden table on the other side of the butcher's block while Mrs. Landry got out butter and eggs and heated up a frying pan. We all watched as she effortlessly whipped together the eggs with the rapid movement of a fork and then poured it into the pan of melted butter. She lifted the pan from the heat, tossing the eggs about, and then carefully folded them before slipping another spoonful of butter over the top.

"Where did you learn to do such sorcery?" Joseph asked.

Mrs. Landry tugged on the front of her apron, blushing with embarrassment. She was not accustomed to attention, that much was clear. "I trained under a remarkable cook. She studied in France, where she learned the fine art of sauces and other complicated dishes."

"The French know how to make everything beautiful," Joseph said. "And now it appears you do as well."

Since Joseph was our guest, we insisted that he have the first one. Upon the first bite, he closed his eyes and moaned. "It's magnificent."

Soon, to our delight, we were all digging into our omelets. Penelope and I had to agree that they were divine.

"To think, two days ago, I was so hungry I was about to chew my arm off," I said. "Now I'm eating like a French duchess."

"Where were you two days ago?" Joseph asked.

"It's a rather long story that I'll tell you about some other time." I must deflect until I came up with a story that I could remember. "Suffice it to say, my fortune has changed, thanks to my kind…godfather."

An understanding flashed in Joseph's eyes. I knew what he thought. However, I couldn't say anything that would change his mind, so I left it alone. Anyway, we were having such fun. In addition, he didn't seem like the type of man to judge another for simply surviving.

We'd just scoffed down the last of the omelet when I heard the front door open and close.

"Did you hear that?" I whispered, fork in air.

"Shall I go see who it is?" Penelope asked.

"That's not necessary," I said. It had to be Percival. No one else had a key. "It will be Dr. Bancroft, I suspect. Here to make sure I've settled in."

Sure enough, no sooner had I finished the sentence than Percival entered the kitchen with a bottle of wine in his hand. He abruptly stopped just inside the door. He blanched at the sight of us all around the kitchen table, then blinked as if he couldn't quite believe what he saw.

Feeling like a child caught stealing treats, I rose to my feet, my stomach fluttering with nerves. "Hello, Dr. Bancroft. Merry Christmas. I didn't expect to see you again today."

"It's Christmas, and I worried you might be lonely. I put Clara to bed, and Mother went to bed, so here I am." He nodded at Penelope and Mrs. Landry, who had also risen from the table. "Ladies."

They nodded at him, then started clearing the table, clearly unsure what to do next.

"This is my neighbor from across the hall," I said, introducing Percival to Joseph. "He was alone tonight too."

The men shook hands. Percival's expression resembled the one he'd had when he found me at the brothel. Jealousy mixed with rage.

"This has been wonderful, but I must go," Joseph said. "Thank you for the most enjoyable evening I've had in an age."

"You're very welcome," I said, returning his kind smile. "I'll be in touch about our idea."

"I can hardly wait," Joseph said.

Penelope rushed forward. "I'll show you out."

One last nod toward Percival and a quick glance at Mrs. Landry, and Joseph shot out of the kitchen rather like a ball bursting from a cannon.

"May I speak with you in the other room?" Percival asked tightly.

"Yes, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Landry, for the best omelet I've ever had," I said.

"My pleasure, Mrs. Wainwright."

With a heavy heart, I trudged out to the sitting room, with Percival not far behind. He still carried the bottle of wine, which Penelope noticed upon our arrival, offering to open it for us.

"No, thank you," Percival said. "I brought it as a gift for Stella."

"You may retire for the evening," I said to Penelope. "Thank you for keeping me company tonight."

"You're most welcome." She scuttled away, heading up the stairs to her room. I assumed Mrs. Landry would also retire in her sleeping quarters off the kitchen, leaving me alone with Percival.

He added another log to the fire before sitting in one of the wingback chairs.

"I didn't expect to see you again today," I said.

"As you said."

"What are you doing here?" I asked softly.

"To be honest, I'm not sure. Perhaps it was a mistake putting you in an apartment so close to mine. It's too easy to find myself walking here without consciously realizing I am doing so."

"I'll enjoy seeing you any time. We don't have to wait until Saturday."

"I was imagining you here all alone by the fire, feeling homesick or sad or whatever it is one feels on Christmas, but it was not the situation at all."

"Are you angry at me?" I asked timidly, despite my wish to appear brave and unaffected by his unexpected appearance. The truth was much different. I could hardly breathe, transfixed by his presence.

"No, not angry."

"Disappointed?"

"No. Not at all. Impressed, perhaps. And a little jealous, if I'm to be perfectly honest. I could hear your laughter the moment I walked in the door." His tone belied his words. He sounded tightly angry as if all his attention was concentrated on remaining civil.

"Oh, well…we were only making the best of what could have been a lonely evening. We're all without family."

"You have me," he said through gritted teeth.

"Only I don't. Not in the ways I wish. You know that. We agreed upon this arrangement."

He sighed, and all of the anger seemed to swoosh out of him, replaced by shame. "I know. After not seeing you for so long, having you back in my life is overwhelming. I cannot think of anything else. I'm tortured, knowing how close you are, yet how far away."

"I know," I whispered. "But it has to be this way."

"Yes."

"As far as the way I conduct myself, I see no reason why I cannot run my small staff as I see fit. If I'm to have little interaction with the outside world for fear of discovery, then I must form friendships within my tight circle. Surely you can understand the loneliness I face?"

He nodded, pinching the ridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger. "Yes, I do. Of course, I do."

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

He retrieved his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the debris left from the log from his hands. "No, we had a large supper. Mother insisted on goose, which I find greasy. But I do as she asks. As you know."

"Did Clara have a good rest of the day?" I asked, yearning for the sweet little girl I'd fallen for as deeply as I had Percival and his mother.

"Yes, she was spoiled rotten. I don't think it's good for the child to have so many toys, but Mother has no such worries."

"She's a well-behaved, kind girl, so whatever you're doing is working well. How's your mother?"

"She's in robust health as always. She told me to tell you hello and that she'd be by to see you soon."

"Did she know you were coming here tonight?"

"Yes. She knows everything," Percival said. "It's no use to try to hide anything from her."

I smiled, thinking of Mrs. Bancroft's strength of character and mighty will.

We sat in silence for a moment. It was unlike us, this quiet that hung so thickly in the air, holding all that we wished to say but could not.

"I should go," Percival said. "It's late, and you need your beauty rest."

"Yes, I suppose I do."

"I'll see you on Saturday?" Percival asked.

"I'm looking forward to it." I smiled.

"Yes. I'll pray you'll remain out of trouble until then?"

"I'll do my best."

I walked him to the door, shutting it behind him, wishing I could follow but knowing it was not to be.