Amelia led me down the stairs, then along the bottom part of the “U”-shaped building, then right to the dining room.

Morton sat near the end of the dining room table closest to us, leaning forward, his elbows on the table. Tony sat across from him, holding a letter. The way Tony sat made him look so defeated and alone that I felt ashamed for causing him turmoil.

Our month-long “vacation” at the Country House had contained little rest. Most days, grief consumed my thoughts. Grief for Anastasia, for Marja, and for all the others now lost.

Tony’s days were filled with meetings, his men arriving and departing well into the night. His slumber had been much the same as mine, waking in a sweat, or in shouts of alarm, and he would never say why. But he never asked for his husband’s prerogative, and for that I felt grateful.

When Tony saw us, he asked Pearson to move luncheon to the veranda.

My little bird seemed happier in its big white wrought iron cage, and it chirped when I came outside. Morton, wearing a brown wool jacket and tan pants, followed at a distance, taking a seat across from Tony, leaving a chair between himself and me.

Our housekeeper Jane Pearson was busily straightening the steaming trays. Her round face was red, a lock of graying blonde hair plastered to its side.

Her daughter Mary began setting the table. “That little thing gave us no end of trouble.”

“Oh?” I said.

Jane frowned at Mary. “The missus doesn’t need to concern herself with that.”

“No, it’s fine.” I turned to Mary. “What happened?”

Pearson came to the table. “Your bird got loose, mum. Took Honor by surprise and flew off a bit. It took some doing to catch it, but it’s back safe, no worries.”

I laughed, turning to my bird. “Good for you!”

Mary approached with some trepidation and curtsied. “Pork potato hash, spring peas, mint cake, mum.”

“Very good, Mary, thank you.”

She curtsied, gave her parents a glance, then brought the filled plates to us. I poured Tony, Morton, and myself some tea.

Tony seemed to relax when I did that, and we began to eat, the servants retreating to a discreet distance.

“I’m glad you feel well enough to join us,” Tony said.

“Thank you.” I hoped we wouldn’t continue our earlier conversation. There was nothing I might add, and the matter might become heated if Tony were to agitate himself on the topic.

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Morton said, “Your butler brought you a mountain of post!”

“Yes,” I said. “Mostly cards, but I do have some notes yet unopened.” I paged through them ... “One from Jon —”

I hadn’t seen Jonathan Diamond since Queen’s Day dinner two months ago. But he’d sent a note to the Spadros Country House twice a week like clockwork.

“Oh?” Tony said. “I’m surprised he knew to send it here rather than the Country House.”

Of course Jon knew what went on in my life. In light of what he’d said in the past, Jon must have spies near the houses surrounding us. But that knowledge was a comfort to me.

“How’s he feeling?” Tony said.

“‘Much improved,’ he says. He’ll call when we’re ‘at home’.”

In Bridges, being “at home” simply meant you wanted and were able to receive company; it had nothing to do with whether you were at the house. I returned Jon’s note to my pocket and took up the next. “Here’s a note from Gardena —”

Tony’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

At the time, I didn’t know what went on between Mr. Anthony Spadros and Miss Gardena Diamond (Jon’s sister). But Gardena and Tony had a long history of animosity, particularly on her part, although at times Tony appeared to be in love with her.

Tony blamed Gardena for my presence at the zeppelin station during the explosion, even though I told him going there was my idea. Since then, he became angry whenever her name was mentioned. So I didn’t open the letter, but set it hastily aside.

“— and one from Madame Biltcliffe!”

My dear Mrs. Spadros —

Madame Marie Biltcliffe sends her compliments and hopes to have the pleasure of your company for tea on Thursday, April Seventeenth.

This was a novelty. I wondered what it might mean.

“Perhaps Madame would like to make your acquaintance,” Tony said, “aside from simply being your dressmaker” ... and it was then I realized I had spoken aloud.

“Of course,” I said, cheeks burning. “I’d be happy to take tea with her.”

“Only if you feel well enough,” Tony said. “There’s no obligation for you to do anything whilst in mourning.”

I nodded. He had to explain it to me, as ... well, in the Pot, people died every day. If one went about all this ritual every time someone died, nothing would get done.

Madame let me use my visits to her shop as a cover. Tony would believe me to be there when I was actually on a case. Perhaps I’d finally be able to visit David Bryce. “I can send a note if I don’t feel well. What will you do with yourself?”

Tony shrugged, his eyes on his plate. “I’ve been away from the Business far too long. I have more than enough work to do.”

I took a sip of tea. “I noticed you also received mail.”

Tony gave a bitter snort. “Indeed.” He pulled an invitation from his breast pocket: cream stationery edged in gold, the Clubb Family’s symbol upon the envelope flap.

Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Clubb present their compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Spadros and request the honor of their company at the launching of their newest yacht, the Ace of Clubbs, on the Twenty-First of April next.

Northwest Quadrant Marina

R. S. V. P.

“This is in six days!” To send a major invitation less than three weeks in advance was exceedingly rude.

“My sincerest apologies, mum,” Pearson said. “It was sent a month ago, but here, and never forwarded. In the confusion it was lost until now.” He straightened. “I take full responsibility.”

I shrugged. It didn’t matter. “The Ace of Clubbs?” To place the name of a Holy Card on an inanimate object, no matter how grand, bordered on blasphemy. From what I’d seen of the Clubb Family so far, though, I shouldn’t have been surprised.

“Indeed,” Tony said bitterly. “One of their plots come to hatch at last.”

Morton said nothing, focused as he was on his luncheon.

“Will we attend?” I never knew which events we could miss and which were vital. And this invitation seemed to dismay him.

Tony rested his elbows on the table, his head in his hands, murmuring, “What would my grandfather have done?”

He sat like this for a long moment, then straightened, facing me. “Yes, we’ll attend. Invitations to these launchings aren’t given lightly. All the other Families will be represented, and we can’t be seen to slight the Clubbs, not now.”