Behind her, near the kitchen archway, Rosamund stood with a breakfast tray balanced on one forearm.

She did not come forward.

She never came forward when Sabina was in a room; he had noticed that and thought it was deference, and later he would think about the difference between deference and something else entirely.

“Safe travels, Mr.

Prescott,” she said quietly.

“Thank you, Rosamund.”

He walked out.

The car was waiting under the portico with the trunk already open, and his driver put the almost-empty bag inside as if it weighed forty pounds, because that was what he had been asked to do.