CHAPTER 15

moment and it's very romantic out there. There's a bird on the lawn that I think must be

a nightingale from the Cunard or White Star Line. It's singing away—" her voice sang—"It's romantic, isn't it, Max?"

"Very romantic," he said, then, looking at me miserably, added, "If it's light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables."

The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Lily decisively shook her head at Max, the topic of the stables, and indeed all topics, vanished into thin air. Amidst the broken

remnants of the last few minutes at the table, I noticed the candles being lit again, seemingly for no reason, and felt a strong desire to look everyone in the eye while also

avoiding their gazes. I couldn't guess what Lily and Max were thinking, but I doubted even Casey, who seemed to have a certain resilient skepticism, could entirely dismiss

the urgent, metallic clamor of the fifth guest. To a certain temperament, the situation might have seemed intriguing—my instinct was to call the police immediately.

The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again.

Max and Casey, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to keep vigil beside a perfectly tangible presence, while trying to appear pleasantly

interested and a little deaf. I followed Lily around a series of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom, we sat side by side on a wicker settee.

Lily cupped her face in her hands, as if savoring its lovely shape, and her eyes gradually moved into the velvet dusk. I could see that turbulent