“Oh—Mrs. Ravenscroft.”
I look blankly at her for a second. I don't think I'll ever get used to being called Mrs Ravenscroft.
“Can I get you something?”
“Please call me Ivy,” I say. “And coffee, yes. Any coffee please. All the coffee.”
She smiles and fills another French press with just-boiled water.
“Is the tray for Isobel?” I ask. “I'll take it.”
She hesitates, but makes the concession, and tells me where to find Isobel's office.
Her office door is mostly open.
She is behind her desk—fully dressed at five in the morning, silk blouse and a narrow skirt, hair done, the gold chain at her throat I've seen on her before. Her laptop is open and the screen's light is on her face. She looks as immaculate as ever, but also a little worn out. Her raven cane is propped against the desk. On the corner of the desk, beside her water glass, is a small prescription bottle and two white pills she has not yet taken.
I knock with my foot to announce my arrival.
When she sees me she pushes the laptop shut with one elegantly manicured fingertip.
“What luck. I've been wanting to speak to you.”
“I brought coffee.”
“Thank the gods,” she replies, a new sparkle in her tired eyes.
I set the tray down, press the plunger, pour two cups, and take a seat.
I'm afraid to ask, but do so anyway. “Brumilde?”
“Stable. She came out of surgery just before midnight. They have her in ICU but the surgeon was very pleased. She took the worst of it on her back—damage to a kidney, a concussion, multiple lacerations. With any luck, she will be home by the end of the week.”
I close my eyes. She must have covered Alex with her body. I want to weep, but I swallow the lump in my throat and keep it together.
“Alexander was sleeping soundly when last we heard. He comes home this morning. His wound was worse than I expected, poor thing. But it's not a bad thing to have a scar. Scars tell us what we survived.”
My eyes sting, and I look down at my coffee, blinking, trying to clear the beginning of my tears. I need to change the subject. “How long have you been up?”
“A while. I don't sleep well when my family are in hospital.”
“No. Apparently I don't, either.”
“Brodie's man who investigated the damage to Ascot Grange said they'd put a bomb in the nursery wall.”
I grimace at the sheer brutality of it. Who would do that? A baby’s nursery! Anger and grief mixing together in my chest.
How dare they? My fingers curled into fists. “They must have sent someone in when the solar was being installed,” I whispered.
“It's not your fault,” replies Isobel. “Elena Kuznetsova would have found a way in regardless.”
I reach for any kind of comfort. “But she's dead, now, right? She's really dead. We're safe.” I was desperate to believe it, but I knew before Isobel answered me that the life of a Ravenscroft is never truly safe.
Isobel almost smiles, then sets her cup down.
“Ivy. I'm afraid we have another difficulty.”
My first thought is Christopher's recent gambling debts, but Isobel is looking at me in a way that suggests otherwise.
