But she smiled again and said, "So were you. A regular cowboy."

He shrugged, as if he did things like that every day, and an awkward silence fell between them.

But before he could think of what else to say, Melody broke it. "We should maybe sort of celebrate or something. Want to get a drink?"

Doug stared at her-the efficient and sarcastic Melody Talbot was asking him out? Trying to stutter an acceptance, he said, "I-"

But then he thought of Maura Bell, and of the last time he had made a fool of himself, imagining that a woman fancied him.

He wasn't going to risk that humiliation again, not any time soon, and not with someone who could rip him to shreds if it suited her. "I, uh-I have to be somewhere," he amended. "Some other time?"

He saw an unexpected flash of disappointment in her face, quickly concealed, but before he could figure out how to take back his refusal, she said evenly, "Right." This time her smile was brittle. "See you, then," she added, tossing the words back at him as she turned and walked away.

"What will you do about the brooch?" asked Gemma. It was late on Saturday morning, and she was in Erika's sitting room, drinking the strong and bitter-and, Erika had added fiercely, not decaffeinated-coffee that Erika had made them.

Early that morning, Gemma had taken Kit to see her mother, and then they'd ridden the tube to Leyton High Road. Her father, caught unawares in the midst of serving a customer, had looked ridiculously pleased to see them. Kit volunteered to stay and help out, with touching enthusiasm, and before Gemma left she had taken her dad aside.

"We'll get through this," she said. "I'm taking some time off work. I can help out in the mornings for a bit, and maybe Kit can come in after school. And Mum's going to be okay."

As her father's face worked with emotion, she saw how perilously close he had come to collapse.

It wasn't in his nature to accept with grace, but he nodded, then turned away, patting at his eyes with his apron, and Gemma vowed to do better by them both. If he couldn't move towards her, she would have to move towards him.

"The brooch?" repeated Erika thoughtfully. "I went to Harrowby's first thing this morning. Your nice Mr. Khan showed it to me. Very charming fellow."

Gemma waited, wondering if she would ever see the charming side of Amir Khan, and after a moment, Erika went on, "It is a beautiful thing, even more so than I remembered. And Mr. Khan gave me the number of Harry Pevensey's cousin, his next of kin. When I rang her, she offered it to me, as a gift. She said she thought it should go to its rightful owner. It was very generous of her."

"Then you-"

"Yes, I told her I would take it, but not to keep. There's too much pain attached to it. That's not what my father intended when he made it."

"But it's worth-"

"Nothing. Or everything," said Erika. "I'm going to give it to the Victoria and Albert. The museum has a fine jewelry collection, and my father would have been proud to see it there."

"I would like my father to be proud of me." The confession caught Gemma unawares. "He told me that I was hurting my mother by not marrying Duncan."

"Well." Erika sipped at her coffee without wincing. "I am not a psychologist, but it may be that your father is projecting his own wishes onto your mother, perhaps in part because he cannot fully admit them.

"But you shouldn't let your decisions be influenced by what will make your father or your mother happy, but rather by what will make you and Duncan happy."

Gemma twisted her cup in her hands. "But I'm…afraid." There, she had said it. "Why isn't Duncan afraid? There are so many things that could go wrong. I don't want to-"

"You cannot stand still. And Duncan knows all about fear. He lost Kit's mother. He almost lost you. And he lost the baby that was his as well as yours. I suspect that is when he made the leap that you are afraid to make. And what, after all, have you to lose?"

"Myself," Gemma said softly. "I don't want to be like my mum. I don't want to orbit around someone else's sun."

"Are you sure it's not the other way round with your parents? That it's your father who orbits your mother?" asked Erika. "And besides," she added with emphasis, "you are not your mother, and Duncan is certainly not your father."

"But what if…" Gemma forced herself to admit the thing that terrified her most. "What happened the other night…It was Doug in the line of fire, but it could have been Duncan…What if I lost him?"

"Then," said Erika, "you have to consider the alternative to taking the risk. And that is many long nights of lonely suppers and cold beds. And teetering on the fence doesn't protect you from pain; it merely gives you more to regret."

Gemma slid round on the piano bench just a little, running her fingers lightly over the keys. There was a chime of sound, so faint she thought she might have imagined it, but it seemed to reverberate through her body.

Without looking at Erika, she said, "I got a call today. From Duncan's cousin Jack's wife. My friend Winnie, the Anglican priest. She's pregnant."

"Ah. How do you feel about that?"

"I'm not sure. Happy. Sad. Jealous. Confused."

"Yes." Erika nodded. "I expect so. Have you told Duncan?"

"Not yet. I was in the City, visiting my mum."

"Then you should go and tell him now. It's cause for celebration."

"I should, shouldn't I?" Gemma felt a sudden, unexpected fizz of exhilaration, like champagne bubbles in her blood, and almost laughed aloud. Winnie was pregnant.

She stood and went to Erika, dropping down on one knee so that she could look up into her face. For an instant, she saw the young woman Gavin Hoxley had loved, and who had taken the leap of loving him back, regardless of the consequences. "Will you be all right?"

"I'm not sure I know what all right is." Erika smiled, and the twinkle was back in her dark eyes. "But I think I will ask my friend Henri to dinner."

Gemma walked down Arundel Gardens, feeling the slight spring as her heels connected with the pavement. The sun shone in a blue and perfectly cloudless sky, and the air seemed to have texture to it, so that she almost felt as if she were swimming in its crystal clarity.

When she reached Portobello Road she bought flowers from the corner stall, two dozen red tulips, imagining, as she watched the vendor wrap them, the bright splash of color they would make against the white wall of the sitting room when she put them on the bookcase. Then, a bit farther along, she chose strawberries and asparagus, taking her time, as if finding the perfect specimens was the most important thing in the world. The street was crowded, the shoppers brought out in force by the beautiful day, but for once she didn't mind the jostling, and the colors of people's clothing and stall awnings seemed unnaturally bright.

With the flowers cradled under one arm, she swung the carrier bag from the fruit and veg stall in the other hand, making her way farther down the road, glancing desultorily into shop windows. She thought she might buy shoes, or an inexpensive bracelet under the Westway, something entirely frivolous, entirely out of character.

But just before the Westway, her eye was caught by a print on a photographer's stall. She bought it without deliberation, handing over a note with a smile, then walked away, examining her find. The house she thought she recognized as one nearby, but its cream brickwork and the French blue of a bay window on the first floor served merely as a backdrop for the graceful curved limbs of an apple tree that filled the frame, bursting with white blossom.