“Ah. Yes. She is…a rock,” Dunsany said softly, eyes on the fire, which had begun to smolder with the low blue flame characteristic of peat. “A rock,” he repeated, more firmly. “Her fortitude has sustained us all.”

Oh, has it?Grey thought. Something was wrong here. Lady Dunsany had never failed to greet him within moments of his arrival, but she was nowhere in sight. Neither had he ever known her to be far from her husband’s side—yet as they spoke, he became aware that the desolate feel of the room was not due entirely to the meager fire. It was clean and orderly, but its usual warm appeal—due largely to the bits of clutter and careless ornament that Lady Dunsany strewed in her wake—had quite gone.

“I look forward to paying my respects to Lady Dunsany,” Grey said, cautious.

“Oh, she will be so pleased to—oh!” Realization struck the elderly nobleman, and he began to struggle out of his chair. “I am so stupid today, Lord John, do forgive me. I have quite forgot to send Hanks to tell her you are here!”

Dunsany had barely regained his feet, though, when Grey heard voices in the corridor and stood, as well. Hanks had evidently taken matters into his own hands; the butler opened the door, bowing Lady Dunsany and her daughter Isobel into the room, following them with the tray of brandy.

“Lord John! Lord John!”

The advent of the women had much the same effect as his stirring up the fire; the room seemed at once warmer, the cold staleness of Dunsany’s lonely lair dissipated in a wave of feeling and high-pitched voices.

They were in mourning, of course, and yet they brought with them a sense of movement and animation, like a very small flock of starlings.

Isobel was weeping, but as much in gratitude for his presence, he thought, as with grief. She flung herself upon his bosom, and he folded her gently in his arms, grateful himself for the opportunity to provide even this simple service. He feared he had much less to offer either of her parents.

Lady Dunsany was patting his arm, smiling in welcome, though her face was pale and set. Still, he caught sight of the grief lurking in her eyes, and moved by impulse, reached out an arm and drew her into his embrace, as well.

“My dears,” he murmured to the women. “I am so sorry.”

He was terribly conscious, as they must be, of the sadly diminished state of the little family. Memories of other meetings swept him, when both Gordon and Geneva were with them, their friends filled the house, and his own coming was an occasion filled with delight and unceasing talk and laughter.

Hanks had taken it upon himself to pour the brandy, and had placed a glass in Lord Dunsany’s hand with gentle insistence. The old man stood blinking at it, as though he had never seen such a thing before. He did not look at his wife or daughter.

Grey became aware, in the midst of this tumult, that Lord Dunsany’s description of his wife had been neither admiring nor metaphorical; he had been stating a physical fact. Lady Dunsany wasa rock. She accepted his embrace, but did not yield to it. “But you have a grandson, I understand, Lady Dunsany?” he said, drawing back a bit in order to look down at her. “I hope the child is well.”

“Oh, yes.” Her lips trembled a bit, but she smiled, nonetheless. “Yes, he is a lusty dear boy. Such a—such a comfort.”

He noticed the brief hesitation. She was dry-eyed, and did not glance at her husband—though Lord John could not recall any occasion on which Lord Dunsany’s welfare had not been her chief concern. Yes, something was quite wrong here, beyond the tragedy of Geneva’s death.

It is all my fault,Lord Dunsany had blurted.

He began to understand his own role here. He was neutral ground, no-man’s-land. Or everyone’s.

Isobel did not appear at tea, later.

“She is shattered, poor thing,” Lady Dunsany said, her own lips trembling. “She was so much attached to her sister, and the circumstances—there was hellish weather, and we arrived almost too late. She was terribly affected. But she will be heartened by your company; so good of you to come.” She did her best to smile at him, but it was a ghastly attempt.

“I’m sure that once the funeral is over…” She trailed off and her face seemed to collapse upon itself, as though the thought of the funeral oppressed her physically.

He began to have an odd feeling, as the evening drew in. The Dunsanys had always been a close and affectionate family, and he was not surprised that they should be deeply affected by Geneva’s death. He had known them in such affliction before, when Gordon died. But on that occasion, their grief had been shared, the members of the family drawing together, supporting each other in their mourning.

Not now. He sat between his host and hostess at the tea table, and might as well have sat on the equator, between two frozen poles of ice and snow. Both spoke pleasantly and with great courtesy—to him. Watching carefully, he thought that the constraint between them was composed of a sense of blame on her part, clearly guilt on his—but why?

He had been cold, he thought, since the moment of his arrival. There was a good fire, of course, hot tea, coffee, toasted bread—but the chill of the day, the house, and the company mortified his bones.

“Oh!” Lady Dunsany started, rather as though she had sat upon a drawing pin. “I had forgot, Lord John. There is a letter for you, come this morning.”

“A letter?” Grey was startled. No one save his family knew he had come to Helwater. What urgency might have compelled them to send a letter upon his heels? The messenger must have passed him on the road.

Thoughts of Hal, the journal page, the conspiracy, flitted through his mind. But what could have happened that would not abide his return? He took the folded paper from Lady Dunsany, expecting to see either Hal’s jaggedly impatient lettering, or his mother’s untidy scrawl—no one in the family wrote with any grace at all—but the direction was in an unfamiliar hand, round and clear.

The seal was plain; he broke it, frowning—and then felt an extraordinary warmth flow through him, reaching even his chilled toes.

There was no salutation. The note was brief:

I had wished to send you a sonnet, but I am no poet, and would not borrow someone else’s words—not even the verses of your friend the Sub-Genius, filled with meaning as they are.

I wish you well in your errand of compassion. I hope it may be quickly fulfilled, and your journey home accomplished even more quickly.

I cannot stop thinking of you.

He stared at this in astonishment, broken only when Lord Dunsany bent, grunting slightly, to pick up something from the carpet near his feet.

“What is this?” He held it up, a faint smile momentarily easing the rigidity of his grief. That was a rhetorical question, as it was perfectly obvious that the object he held was a short, curling lock of dark hair, bound with red thread.

“It fell when you opened your letter,” he explained, handing it to Grey with the shadow of a you-sly-dog look. “I didn’t know you had a sweetheart, Lord John.”

“A sweetheart?” Lady Dunsany’s look of interest deepened, and she leaned to peer closely at the lock of hair in his hand. “A dark lady, I see. It is not that Miss Pendragon of whom your mother wrote, is it?”

“I think it very unlikely,” Grey assured her, suppressing a brief shudder at thought of Elizabeth Pendragon, a Welsh heiress with a very loud voice and immense feet. “However, I am afraid I am in complete ignorance myself—the missive is unsigned.”

He flashed the paper quickly before her eyes, not allowing time for her to read it, before tucking it safely into his waistcoat.