He turned back toward his car without another word.

By eight thirty, Christopher was sitting at the long mahogany table downstairs, loudly complaining to the cook about the pepper on his poached eggs.

I stood in the dark corridor near the kitchen pantry and waved Mr.

Pendelton in as he slipped through the side oak door.

We walked up the narrow west wing stairwell together, my soft canvas shoes making no sound while his thick leather oxfords creaked a little on every third step.

Inside the master suite, the electric radiator hummed against the baseboard.