Chapter 534: The Scent of Wanting

Past mid-December, fog crept up from the banks of the River Thames. Filtered through the veil wall at the entrance to Flower Moon Street, only a thin wisp remained by the time it slipped through the doorway, hugging the flagstones as it trickled inside.

The shop windows smashed back in May had all been fitted with new glass, though the brass plaque of Donner's pawnshop had never been replaced.

Richard pushed the door open and walked in. Sitting behind the counter, Donner looked thoroughly displeased.

"...Hey, you haven't shown up for work in two months and nine days."

In his left hand he held a pair of Copper Tongs, their tips pinching a piece of turquoise the size of a grain of rice.

"Mr. Donner, I went to Apennine..."

"I know you went to Apennine."

Donner tossed the turquoise into a pewter dish.

"You went to Milan, Genoa, and Switzerland, and even crossed a snow-capped mountain..."

He set down the Copper Tongs, pulled an envelope from beneath the counter, and slapped it onto the wood.

"And there's this. Letters from the Genoese show up more often than you do. When the postman slipped it through the door this morning, he asked if the recipient was that skinny son of mine."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him it was just a lazy shop hand who hasn't clocked in for two months."

Donner slid the envelope across. "The postman said young men are all like that these days. His own apprentice enlisted just last month, and now the boy's nowhere to be found."

Richard tucked the letter into his overcoat and walked into the back room with practiced familiarity.

Donner poked the small charcoal stove until the embers flared and grabbed a handful of tea leaves.

"There's a crate of new goods in the back. Have a look while you drink your tea."

The tea was brewed in the old Yazd fashion, steeped with a pinch of dried rose petals until it turned thick and astringent.

Donner got up and went into the rear storeroom, returning with an iron-strapped wooden crate in his arms. Black serial numbers from the Quartermaster Department were stenciled across the planks.

"This came from Basra."

He pried open the lid to reveal three clay bowls nestled in chopped straw.

They were unglazed earthenware, roughly the size of ordinary household soup bowls. Donner slipped on a pair of gloves, lifted one out, and turned it over to show Richard the interior, which was completely covered in incantations.

The database of [Learning] opened automatically, and Richard cross-referenced the script in his mind.

The incantations were written in Aramaic, once the official language of the Empire of Persia, though it had gradually died out.

At the bottom of the bowl was a drawing of a figure with long, disheveled hair, arms bound behind the back and ankles shackled in iron chains.

"This is an Incantation Bowl," Donner explained.

"It's an old piece from Mesopotamia, dating back to the Sasanian Dynasty."

"Back then, every Jewish, Mandaean, and Christian household in Babylon would commission someone to inscribe a bowl like this and bury it upside down beneath their thresholds and room corners—or sometimes under the bed of a dead person."

"Why bury them?"

"To trap foul things, of course." Donner tapped the rim of the bowl, gesturing for him to look inside.

"Picture it—when you turn the mouth of the bowl face down, it's just like clamping a mouth shut."

"If anything unclean tries to burrow up through the earth, it crawls straight into the bowl."

"They circle around these incantations until they reach the very center, where this bound woman pins them down."

Donner sat down beside the crate.

"Last winter, the Empire's soldiers occupied Basra and pushed north to Qurna, where they dug emplacements for their artillery."

"When they pried up the mud-brick floor, they found seven or eight Incantation Bowls neatly buried upside down underneath."

"Those grunts had more nerve than sense—they actually took these eerie things and used them as shaving bowls."

At this point, the short man looked somewhat at a loss for words.

"Before long, the lather they whipped up kept turning black, and partway through shaving, their razors would start drifting toward their own throats."

"Only then did the quartermaster realize something was wrong, so he crated them up and shipped them back to be disposed of."

Richard recalled a piece of news he had read on page three of the morning paper: General Townshend's forces had been besieged at Kut for over ten days now.

Donner nestled the bowl back into the straw.

"Once they're sold, we'll split the take forty-sixty as usual, but the appraisal report has to be written out clearly."

Richard lifted the bowl under the lamp and spread out Still Water.

In the third ring from the center of the bowl, a line recorded the client's name. Richard pieced the letters together and frowned.

"Mr. Donner, this says Bahram Gushnasp, whose mother is Mihrdukht."

"Right."

"Why does it only give the mother's name?"

Donner picked up his teacup and blew at the rose petals floating on top.

"No one can ever vouch for who a man's father really is, but there's no mistaking the mother."

"My grandfather said that when people over there write talismans, they always identify a person through the mother."

"Evil creatures recognize the same thing. An evil creature can't tell whose son is whose, but it knows whose belly you came out of."

Richard thought of the telegrams delivered to front doors; sure enough, they were always handed to mothers and wives.

For the next hour, he went about his usual work.

A ring of green verdigris had built up around the spouts of several copper kettles in the cabinet; dipping a soft cloth in vinegar and salt, he polished them clean bit by bit.

An Ottoman-era Brass Astrolabe had a stiff pivot; he dripped two drops of bone oil into the joint and worked the graduated ring back and forth until it turned without a sound.

There were also a pair of ivory dice, a silver-plated spice box, and a hand mirror rimmed with a half-circle of pearls. Each antique stayed in his hands for only a short while.

Wiping, oiling, and returning each piece to its place, he let the pads of his fingers linger briefly against them.

[Available Points: 3.07... 3.15... 3.19... 3.23.]

Behind the counter, Donner pored over his ledger, glancing up at him every now and then.

"The way you polish things, you put more heart into it than the old hand who worked for me for over a decade."

"What happened to him?"

"Died last year." Donner turned a page.

"He always used to hum while he polished—nothing but off-key hymns."

"You don't hum, at least, but you stand there spacing out once you're done, as if waiting for the antique to say a word to you after a good wipe."

Richard set the Astrolabe back on the shelf without answering.

After finishing his work, he reached into his inner pocket, drew out a stone, and placed it on the counter.

It was the stone Donner had originally taken from the brazier beside the Fire Worship Temple Pillar to help him guard his window. By now, the stone had turned black. At the sight of it, the smile vanished from Donner's face.

He set down his ledger and picked up the stone to examine it. "How long has this been sitting on your windowsill?"

"Since July," Richard replied.

"Did you carry it with you while you were away?"

"No, it stayed in my dorm room the whole time."

Donner placed the stone onto a handkerchief and slowly folded the cloth over it.

He rose, went into the back room, and returned to press a fresh stone into Richard's hand.

"My grandfather brought a sack of these stones out from the old country. By the time they passed to me, there were eleven left."

"You took one last time, and with this one today, that leaves nine."

"If there are so few, then I..."

"Take it!" Donner brooked no refusal.

"You're drawing more and more foul things around yourself these days. Your situation is far more dangerous than mine."

Even as he spoke, someone pushed open the shop door.

An elderly lady wrapped in a mink shawl walked in, looking to have the setting replaced on her granddaughter's engagement ring.

Donner immediately put on a beaming smile to greet her as he stepped out, waving a hand behind his back to tell Richard to run along.

Richard took the hint and slipped out. Pausing by the doorway, he tore open the letter from Genoa first.

"Dear Mr. Williams, Since following your advice, business has grown considerably compared to the same period in previous years."

"The owner of the Insurance Firm diagonally across the street came over to ask for my secret, so I told him to attend more meetings at the Chamber of Commerce."

"He went twice, came back complaining that attending meetings was more exhausting than fighting a lawsuit, and has taken a detour whenever he sees me ever since."

"My Order of the Crown is still in the queue. Last month there were two hundred and four people ahead of me; this month, one hundred and ninety-one remain."

"Rome's efficiency is truly touching. At this rate, I reckon my grandson will be able to accept the medal on my behalf by the time my turn comes."

"On another note that may interest you, the Eldest Lady has already departed Genoa aboard the Duca degli Abruzzi, bound for Boston."

"She paid me a visit before leaving, though she didn't touch my coffee—presumably the beans weren't to her liking. There is also one more matter I must pass along. That senior figure in the boundary furrow of Rome asked me to relay a message to you: 'Passing by without looking at the stele—do you find the stone too old?'"

"I am relaying this verbatim, not daring to change a single word."

"Where we are, a Virtuoso's displeasure usually manifests in the weather."

"Last week, the rain in Genoa came down with extraordinary fury while not a breath of wind stirred above the Harbor. Old sailors said they had never seen weather like it in sixty years of life."

"My personal suggestion is that the next time you pass through Apennine, you might at least pause by any city gate it recognizes and offer a greeting."

"—Yours faithfully, ."

Richard folded the letter away. On the walk back, he noticed the fog had grown thicker than when he had come.

That night, he set the Incantation Bowl on his desk with its mouth facing up.

After staring at it for a while, he flipped it over so that it sat mouth-down against the wood.

It looked much more agreeable that way.

Richard was halfway through writing the appraisal report when a faint scratching sound came from the window.

He looked up to find a Bronze Beetle crouching on the outer sill. Bracing its two hind legs against a copper sphere larger than its own body, it was nudging the ball bit by bit toward the gap in the window, much like a dung beetle rolling a ball of dung.

The beetle paused and turned its head, fixing its pair of compound eyes on the person inside the room.

Richard pushed the casement open. The copper sphere rolled clattering inside, and the beetle hopped onto the sill after it before springing down onto the desk.

As soon as it landed, all six legs gave way at once; with a sharp click, it collapsed into a flat disc of copper and lay still.

This was Prometheus's courier, which he had met once before. A threaded seam ran around the middle of the copper sphere it had delivered.

Unscrewing it, he found four fist-sized Copper-Cased Grenades wrapped in felt inside, engraved in sequence with the numbers 03, 04, 05, and 06.

A line of tiny lettering was chiseled into the collar ring: Turn three clicks, then pull.

Tucked beneath the felt was a letter from Prometheus.

"Hermes, Four finished units delivered as agreed. Regarding the two prototypes for Heracles, unit 02 ran into an issue."

"It detonated prematurely when he threw it. I have already modified the fuse and replaced the wax seal with wicked copper foil—it won't take in water even if soaked for a week."

"The collar ring is the safety; pulling the pin before turning it three clicks will not trigger detonation. Per our agreement, the disposal of research samples requires both parties' signatures."

"I have already signed my part. Once you sign, please place the attached sheet back inside the copper sphere. The beetle will wake on its own before dawn."

"Also, my master says that if you ever visit Neuchatel, he would like to treat you to a cup of coffee. His card is enclosed."

"—p."

Richard picked up his fountain pen to sign, then paused with the nib hovering above the paper.

Switching to a pencil from the desk instead, he signed a single "." on the line to the right.

After a moment's thought, he added a tiny Caduceus mark beside it.

That left only the business card at the bottom to examine.

The card was exquisitely crafted, featuring a copperplate engraving on the front.

The illustration depicted a childlike automaton seated at a small writing desk, holding a Quill in its hand.

Richard recognized the figure.

In the 1770s, the Neuchatel watchmaker Pierre Jaquet-Droz had built three automata: "The Writer," "The Draughtsman," and "The Musician." Jaquet-Droz had later gone on to become one of the most renowned watchmaking brands in the world.

A single line was printed on the back of the card:

"Neuchatel, Lakeside Street, coffee anytime. —A Watchmaker"

Turning the card between his fingers, Richard recalled that Prometheus's master had apparently only advanced to Major Adept last year, which meant he could hardly be that watchmaker Jaquet-Droz from over a century ago.

Perhaps a student?

Yet if even a student was a Major Adept, then had the man himself lived to the present day, he would have to be at least a Major Adept, or even a Virtuoso.

Setting the card down, Richard realized that before he knew it, he had come to know collaborators across four whole Ranks, from Minor Adept all the way to Master.

...

Gunter's Pastry Shop on Berkeley Square had been open since 1757, its ice cream and wedding cakes famously the finest in the Imperial Capital.

Whenever an upper-class family married off a daughter, if the wedding cake didn't come from Gunter's, the society pages in the next day's papers were sure to make a pointed remark about it.

This winter, however, three of Gunter's apprentices had gone off to the barracks, and soon after, the shop's white sugar ration had been slashed in half.

Ten days before the wedding, the shop sent over an exceedingly polite letter canceling the order. When the Countess finished reading it, her face darkened.

Phillips, on the other hand, was not the least bit worried. By the time afternoon tea wrapped up that day, he had already entrusted the task to Evelyn and Grey.

The Countess objected, "Having two schoolgirls bake the wedding cake—what will people say if word gets out?"

"I ate four of their scones all by myself," Constance insisted.

The Earl gave a single cough from behind his newspaper, and the matter was settled.

Speaking of the cake, the story had to begin with that seed back in July.

Demeter had sent it after the City of Seven Hills, along with a slip of paper: Bury it, infuse a touch of clean ether, and hold what you want in your mind.

When Richard buried it, he thought, 'Grow something that will make my sister happy—preferably vanilla pods.'

August came and went, followed by September, yet not a single blade of grass sprouted at the base of the wall.

For a time, he suspected Demeter's seed was shy of strangers and would only deign to grow in her own fields.

In early November, the gardener came knocking on the study door, his face pale.

"Master, something's growing in the conservatory."

Gerard followed him over to take a look. A vine had burrowed up from beneath the base of the wall into the glasshouse, its leaves a glossy, vivid green.

"It's climbing way too fast." The gardener's voice trembled slightly.

"When I came to water the plants on Monday, it was on the iron trellis on the east side. When I came back on Wednesday, it had already crawled all the way over to the west one."

Gerard stood beneath the vine for a moment and confirmed there was nothing amiss.

"Leave it be. Don't cut it back, and don't try to move it."

By mid-December, pods had formed along the vine; the moment anyone pushed open the conservatory door, a wave of sweet fragrance rushed out to greet them.

On the afternoon of December 17, Evelyn reached up first and plucked a pod.

Grey took it from her and held it beneath her nose to sniff.

"This isn't from Madagascar. Madagascar pods have a hint of smoke in their sweetness, and their skins are thicker."

She took another sniff, her brows knitting together.

"And it's not from Mexico, either. Mexican pods are more pungent, with a spicy kick."

"Then where is it from?" Evelyn asked.

Grey brought the pod to the tip of her nose a third time, closing her eyes.

After a long while, she spoke. "...This is the scent of 'wanting.'"

Evelyn blinked in surprise and snatched the pod back to smell it for herself. Slowly, her expression shifted.

"When I was little at Christmas, standing outside the candy shop window—this was the exact scent I smelled."

She held the pod up and waved it in front of Grey. "Sister Grey, what did you smell?"

Grey's eyes darted briefly toward Richard before snapping back to rest on the tips of her shoes.

"...I smelled a candy shop, too."

She didn't look up as she said it, though the tips of her ears slowly turned red.

That night, after both girls had retired to their rooms, Richard returned to the conservatory alone, plucked a pod, and placed it upon the Scales.

What the Sacred Ibis Bronze Paperweight recorded was: Edible.

The Small Bronze Balance dipped toward the other end, weighing out a single word: Bestowed.

After the pans steadied, they gave another faint sway, as though they had weighed out a trace of something else besides. When Richard leaned in to look, nothing remained on the pan but a lingering, delicate sweetness.

Early the next morning, the kitchen of Ashford House was commandeered by the two girls.

The cook was politely ushered into the laundry room next door by Evelyn.

Passing by the doorway, the butler poked his head in for a look, then silently drew it back out.

Evelyn served as commander-in-chief, Grey was her adjutant, and Richard was the conscripted laborer dragged in to do the heavy lifting.

"You're strong—whip the egg whites." Evelyn shoved a copper basin into his arms.

"Beat them until they don't fall out when you turn the bowl upside down."

"Upside down?"

"Until I can flip the bowl over your head without a drop falling."

Richard took the copper basin to a corner of the long table, the whisk clattering briskly against the bottom of the bowl.

Evelyn tossed an apron his way next.

Drawing the straps behind his back, Richard fumbled blindly and tied a lopsided, unsightly knot. A soft laugh drifted over from the other end of the long table.

Grey set down her paring knife and wiped her hands on her apron. "Turn around."

Richard turned his back to her and felt two fingers pinch the straps behind him, tying them into a neat bow.

"There."

Stepping around to face him, the girl smoothed the front of his apron over his chest, her fingertips brushing against something hard inside his shirt pocket.

"What's this?"

Richard's heart skipped a beat. "...A pencil."

"You keep a pencil in your pocket even with an apron on?" Grey couldn't help laughing.

"No wonder Evelyn says you sleep hugging a book."

With that, she drew her hand back.

Richard ducked his head and whipped the egg whites even faster in the basin.

Grey returned to her seat at the far end of the long table to split vanilla pods. Partway through the third pod, she hesitated, then beckoned to him.

"Richard, come here."

She quickly added, "...Evelyn says you have a steady hand."

Richard set the copper basin down, walked over, and took the paring knife, mimicking her motion by using the spine of the blade to scrape out the seeds.

With a single scrape, half the tiny black seeds clung to the spine of the blade and dropped off, while the rest smeared across the pod's skin.

"Not like that."

Grey reached over and pressed his fingers down slightly.

"Hold the spine of the blade at an angle against the skin and push forward. Don't press straight down."

Dusted with flour, her fingers rested warm against his knuckles.

Two seconds passed before she seemed to realize what she was holding, and she froze all over.

Then, feigning nonchalance, she pulled her hand back and wiped it several times against her apron.

"If—if you scrape too hard, the layer of oil inside the skin comes off with the seeds, and it turns bitter." She rushed the words out in a single breath and ducked her head to split the fourth pod.

Instead, the blade slipped crookedly, and half the pod rolled off the cutting board onto the floor.

Both of them bent down to pick it up at the exact same moment, their heads nearly bumping together.

Grey jerked back, clapping a hand to her forehead as if she had actually been struck.

"We're out of honey!" Evelyn announced loudly all of a sudden.

"I'll go fetch some from the cellar."

At the doorway, she suddenly glanced back and winked furiously at her brother—so hard that Richard worried her eyelid might cramp.

The door clicked shut, plunging the kitchen into sudden quiet.

Grey kept her head lowered over the vanilla pods, splitting them with intense concentration.

After a long silence, she finally spoke in a tiny voice. "Was the food in Milan... any good?"

"It was good. Saffron risotto and fried veal cutlets." Richard thought for a moment.

"Better than the food in Franc. The bread in Franc is hard enough to drive nails."

"Then..."

Grey hesitated, and somehow the rest of the sentence slipped out on its own: "How does it compare to mine?"

The instant the words left her lips, the knife in her hand froze, and a blush crept all the way from her chin to her forehead.

"That's not what I meant—I meant the culinary skill, strictly the technique..."

"Not as good as yours," Richard answered at once.

Grey parted her lips, failed to find any words, and buried her face even lower.

She raised a hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, smearing a white streak of flour across her cheek.

"On your face..." Richard pointed.

"Where?"

She rubbed at her face with the back of her hand—on the wrong side, leaving white smudges on both cheeks.

Unable to hold back a laugh, Richard reached out and brushed the streak of flour away with his thumb.

Grey stood completely still, holding her breath. The two of them were close—so close that Richard could see a tiny fleck of flour resting on her eyelashes.

Just then, the door swung open, and Evelyn marched in hugging a jar of honey.

"Found it! The lamp in the cellar was broken, so I had to grope around in the dark forever."

The two of them stepped apart at once, and Richard glanced at the jar of honey.

He remembered quite clearly that it had been sitting on the kitchen windowsill all morning.

Evelyn looked from her brother to Grey, who was shrinking back behind the pots, asked nothing at all, and went off humming a tune to mix the batter.

The cake finished baking by dusk, made with honey from the swarm of bees Evelyn had chased down back in May and nutmeg Grey had brought from home.

It was modeled after that "Madagascar Vanilla Pod Crème Caramel" Richard had once read aloud to his sister.

Evelyn had crafted a wartime version of it: a honey-caramel custard layered inside an unfrosted honey cake.

She also sculpted a little rabbit dressed in a tailcoat and bow tie, with a top hat perched crookedly on its head—Professor Rabbit as the best man.

"His hat is crooked," Grey pointed out.

"A best man's hat is supposed to be crooked." Evelyn set Professor Rabbit down beside the bride rabbit and stepped back two paces to admire her handiwork. "We should make a bridesmaid rabbit too, shouldn't we? Sister Grey, you sculpt her."

Grey's hands stilled around the dough.

"The bridesmaid is Miss Constance's cousin..." she murmured.

"I've never met her, so I don't know what she should look like."

Even as she said so, she lowered her head and shaped a tiny rabbit with short ears.

She placed the little rabbit on the very edge of the cake, more than half the cake's width away from Professor Rabbit.

Evelyn reached out and moved the bridesmaid rabbit right next to Professor Rabbit.

Grey glanced at it, then quietly nudged it back to the edge.

Evelyn moved it over again, and Grey moved it back once more.

By the third round, Evelyn finally lost it, collapsing across the table in helpless laughter.

After dinner, Grey said she was going to the conservatory to pick a few more pods to save for Evelyn to use later.

Evelyn immediately let out a huge yawn and declared that she was dead tired. Before heading upstairs, she paused at the landing and shot her brother one last emphatic wink.

Thinking a bug had flown into her eye, the butler started to fetch a handkerchief.

Left with no choice, Richard draped his overcoat over his shoulders and followed Grey out alone.

Inside the conservatory, Grey was standing on tiptoe trying to reach a pod on the highest vine, coming up just short on two attempts.

Richard stepped up behind her, reached overhead, and plucked it for her.

Grey took half a step back, her back bumping against his chest.

Startled, the girl shrank slightly and turned around, clutching the pod in her hand without saying a word for a long moment.

"By the way, this is a present for you."

Richard pulled a small paper packet from his overcoat pocket, silently offering an apology to his sister.

"I brought it back from Milan."

Grey unfolded the packet to reveal a small pinch of fine, dark-red threads.

Her eyes lit up at once. Taking the glass the gardener used for watering from the sill, she pinched a single saffron thread and dropped it in. A golden hue bled from the filament and slowly bloomed outward until the entire glass of water turned bright yellow, while the thread itself remained red.

"It's real saffron, not adulterated with safflower," she said in delight, looking up at him.

"You actually didn't get cheated in Milan!"

"The shopkeeper who sold it to me tested it the exact same way."

"Of course—it's the simplest and most foolproof method."

She lowered her gaze to the glass of golden water, her voice gradually dropping to a murmur.

"...Then when you were buying spices in Milan, did you think of me?"

"Yes. I thought of you."

Grey's fingers stilled against the rim of the glass.

"Then why... didn't you write a single letter?"

Richard did not answer; he truly had no reply to give.

Grey didn't wait for his answer, continuing on her own: "After you left, every Friday evening before heading back to my dorm, I would stop by to ask if there was a letter for me."

She gave a shy smile.

"After a while, the old lady at the desk would shake her head the moment she saw me—before I could even open my mouth, she was already shaking her head."

"Later on, I stopped asking, and just walked a little slower whenever I passed by."

"During the two months you were abroad, I came here every Saturday to bake pastries."

"I baked for Evelyn, for your grandfather, for the butler, and for the gardener and the servants."

"Even after they all said they couldn't eat another bite, I kept baking."

Keeping her head bowed, she slowly twirled the vanilla pod between her fingers.

"Even I didn't know who I was baking them for."

After a moment, her voice sank even lower, nearly drowned out by the wind outside the glass.

"...Actually, I did know."

Richard could feel the pencil in his breast pocket pressing against his shirt. And the girl standing before him was waiting for him, too.

"Grey, I..."

"Don't say anything yet."

Grey quickly cut him off.

"Evelyn says you always weigh your words for a long time before you speak."

"Just now, you weighed them... for too long."

She bit her lip. "I'm afraid I'm not ready yet."

Richard looked at her and shook his head.

"Grey, I have to tell you now."

"While I was in Switzerland, something did happen between me and another girl."

"Because of that, I still haven't sorted out my answer, and I don't want to deceive you while my own mind isn't clear."

The light in Grey's expression dimmed at once. After a long silence, she gave a soft sniffle.

"...Then tell me once you've figured it out."

"All right."

"You're not allowed to drag it out too long."

"After the winter solstice," Richard promised.

"After the winter solstice, I will give you an answer for sure."

Grey reached out and straightened the collar of his overcoat.

"Miss Constance says her cousin is the most striking girl of her generation."

"When the bridesmaid walks arm in arm with you, don't you dare..."

"Don't what?"

She opened her mouth, and finally forced out: "...Don't wear your hat crooked."

Richard couldn't help letting out a laugh. Grey glared at him, blushing deeper still.

Her gaze drifted toward the top of his head, and she suddenly said, "There's a leaf in your hair."

"Where?"

"Lean down a little."

Richard lowered his head.

"A little lower."

He leaned down a bit further.

The next instant, something very soft and warm brushed fleetingly against his cheek.

It happened so fast that before he could even react, that touch of warmth was already gone.

Frozen to the spot, Richard raised his head.

Grey had already spun around to flee, only to run headfirst into the doorframe with a sharp "Smack."

"I'm sorry!" she apologized to the doorframe.

Then she hiked up her skirts and bolted into the house like a wisp of smoke, her hem rustling across the flagstones.

Standing inside the conservatory, Richard raised a hand to touch his cheek.

The spot was still warm, carrying a faint trace of vanilla and nutmeg.

Surrounded by a room full of sweet fragrance, he sighed to himself.

Now, he really had to make a choice.

...

Monday, December 20.

At seven in the morning, a newsboy was hawking papers at the corner of the square.

"Extra! Extra! Sir Haig takes command of the Expeditionary Force! Sir French returns home!"

Richard bought a copy.

More than half the front page was taken up by a photograph of Sir Douglas Haig in a crisp uniform, his mustache neatly trimmed and his eyes gazing toward some distant point beyond the camera lens.

Printed below in type two sizes smaller was Sir John French's farewell address, crowded into the corner by an advertisement for chilblain ointment. Among the pedestrians crossing the square, well over half the men wore armbands around their sleeves.

Richard folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm.

He was dressed in a morning coat with a long overcoat draped over it.

His grandfather had hired a tailor on short notice to alter the morning suit; it had originally been meant for Vincent, and though the sleeves and trouser legs had been taken in, the shoulders were still a touch too wide.

The wedding was set to begin at half past nine.

Though he had arrived early, several other guests were already standing beneath the portico, most of them distant relatives of the Blackburn Family and Phillips's family.

Wrapped in mink and camel hair, these wealthy guests huddled together in conversation, their breath mingling into a single cloud of white mist.

A matron stepped out from the crowd and walked straight toward him.

"Young man."

Richard halted in his tracks.

The lady looked him up and down, noting the absence of an armband on his sleeve.

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"Eighteen." The lady nodded.

"My youngest son was eighteen last year, too. He is at Ypres now."

She snapped open her handbag and drew out a white feather.

"My husband serves as a staff officer at the War Office. Every day, he calculates how many men the front lines are short."

Raising the feather, the lady held it out toward his chest.

"For a young man like you to be standing at the church doors attending a wedding, dressed so respectably..."

Several guests nearby turned their heads to watch.

Richard was about to explain that he was a wartime Auxiliary Investigating Scholar on the roster of the Department of Internal Affairs, and therefore exempt from registration.

Yet the tip of the feather was already a hair's breadth from touching the lapel of his overcoat.

Frowning, Richard was just about to step back when a fierce roar of engines echoed from the eastern side of the square.