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I made my way to Charlotte’s office, looking forward to surprising her with the afternoon Alexander had arranged for us.

Her door stood half open. “I want you to know,” Charlotte was saying with remarkable composure, “that I am choosing peace.”

There was a pause. “Do not mistake that for weakness.”

I stepped into the doorway. Her printer answered with a loud mechanical groan, several indignant clicks, and finally produced a page at an angle that suggested it had given up respecting either gravity or common sense.

Charlotte closed her eyes. “You have one opportunity to reconsider your choices.” The printer remained unmoved. “I’ve seen hostage negotiations with greater cooperation.”

I knocked softly against the doorframe. “Am I interrupting?”

She looked up, sighed with theatrical resignation, and pointed accusingly at the printer. “It started this.”

“Is that true?”

“It absolutely is. It jammed three times, printed page forty-seven before page twelve, and then had the audacity to tell me the paper tray was empty while sitting on an entire ream of paper.”

I laughed. “I see.”

“You don’t.” She sighed. “I was trying to finish one chapter before the end of the day. Instead, I’m locked in a battle of wills with office equipment.”

“Then this is excellent timing.”

“It is?”

“I’ve come to rescue you.”

Charlotte regarded me with healthy skepticism. “I’m listening…”

“Alexander has arranged an afternoon at the spa for the two of us.”

She blinked. “The spa?”

“The spa.”

“Today?”

“Right now.”

She reached for the power button on the printer and switched it off without ceremony. “I’ve always believed in knowing when you’ve won.”

“You’ve won?”

“No.” She reached over and picked up her handbag. “I’m conceding with dignity.”

* * *

It was a beautiful, crisp autumn day outside. We decided to take the long way toward the spa.

Charlotte was describing the many ways in which her publisher had misunderstood a chapter she had rewritten three times already. By the time we reached the conservatory, I had agreed that the adjective commercial ought to be used with considerably more restraint. It was somewhere between the conservatory and the main building that she stopped in the middle of a sentence. I followed her line of sight.

Marcus stood with two unfamiliar men near the doors of the main building. One was making notes on a floor plan while Marcus spoke in the low, measured cadence I had come to associate with him. There was nothing remarkable about the scene. It was only that, at one o’clock on a weekday, Blackwood Hall was usually in motion and the stillness of the three men seemed at odds with the building around them.

Marcus saw us. He inclined his head, politely, and returned to his conversation.

“Has it always been like this?” Charlotte asked.

“Like what?”