“Sophie! Are you in there?”

“Orla,” Sophia breathed. She hurried to the door and opened it.

“Sophie, the sheriff and Mr. Halflife are here, and …” Her angular face grew even more so at the sight of all of them hiding away in the dining room, Madame with her head on the table and Mrs. Rathbone with a knife to her side.

“Well, it’s a good thing Tom is here,” said Orla, calm unruffled. “They’ve already been to the farm looking for him. They’re arresting him today instead of …”

“Tell them you’ve found a note saying we’ve all gone to dig on the far west downs,” Sophia said. “There are holes there already. And you never saw any of this.”

Orla glanced once more around the dining room before she said, “I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” and shut the door. Sophia turned the lock.

“Maman,” René was saying, causing his mother to raise her head. “I am waiting for my answer. Why did you never tell me of this?”

“Because I did not want you running off to get married just so you could inherit! Which is what you would have done. Better not to have … the money.” Madame was starting to sound more like herself. She was also looking a bit ill. “And in any case, I had already picked out a wife for you. Years ago …”

“What? Who?” said Sophia and René together.

“Miss Bellamy, of course! I chose her when she was nine years old.”

“But I only met you a few days ago!” Sophia protested.

Madame shook her head. “No. No. Nope. You are wrong. I met you both. Your brother was so polite, and you told me the dearest little lies about … circus performing.”

“Sophie!” Tom said. “It’s the woman …”

“… from the night the rope broke!” she finished, incredulous. René lifted his head while his mother waggled a finger at them.

“And I thought,” she continued, “that any little girl who could scale a cliff, fall on her brother’s head, brush herself off, and lie to a stranger like a rug on a floor—even if she did get a little dramatic—and a stranger who could have had her taken up by the guard, too? Now that …” She pointed emphatically. “… was a fitting wife for my son. It was easy enough to find out who you were.”

Sophia watched Benoit sit back and stretch his arms behind his head, as René did sometimes, a bit of a smile leaking onto his unremarkable face.

“But, Maman!” René said. “I agreed with your choice …” He paused, seeming to take in the oddity of this fact. “… but you are still rejecting her!”

“I had concerns.”

“What concerns?” said Sophia and René together.

“For one, my son, you were very good at charming young ladies into behaving like nitwits for you. Much, much too good …”

Émile chuckled.

“… and Miss Bellamy here was in need of money. Badly. This was not a good beginning. Your father may have been sentimental, René, but I did at least agree with him in wishing your future happiness rather than a lifelong misery. I had intended to be here myself, of course, to observe, but … alas, I went to prison.”

René slammed the table. “This is nonsense. Tell the truth, Maman. Whoever I married was also going to inherit the business with me and take your place. And you could not have that, could you?”

“No. I have not given thirty years of my sweat and blood to have it ruined by your father’s whim and a silly girl who has been enticed by your charms.”

Sophia opened her mouth, but René’s other hand came up and took hers, asking her for silence.

“However,” Madame continued, her voice stronger, face and lips a little more white, “you, René, showed a rather unforeseen devotion to Miss Bellamy, one that left me pleased and quite satisfied. But Miss Bellamy, while capable of many things, had not yet proven herself capable of handling me. An essential skill when becoming a Hasard.”

“Perhaps you should explain your expectations, Adèle,” said Benoit. Sophia’s eyes widened as he winked once at her.

“You should pay attention to my grammar, Benoit. I said ‘had not yet.’ I had been trying to help Miss Bellamy along by being as unpleasant and unreasonable as possible …”

Like mother, like son, Sophia thought, remembering the first few days she’d known René.

“But … drugging me and cutting official documents out of my bodice and laying it all on the table in front of the entire family? Oh, I would say that does it. I will watch my soup from now on, Mademoiselle.” She giggled, though the mention of soup made her face blanch.

The door latch rattled and then someone banged. “Tom? Tomas Bellamy!”

It was Sheriff Burn, who was evidently not looking for them on the west downs. Sophia held up a hand for Tom to wait while Mrs. Rathbone made little sputtering noises. She hoped Francois wasn’t cutting her throat. Or maybe she hoped he was. She leaned across the table. “Madame, is there money for the marriage fee, and will you pay it?”

“Yes. Could I trouble someone for a bucket or a bowl?” said Madame.

The door banged again. “Tom! Sophia!” called the sheriff. “Come on, now. I’ve got the militia with me. Open the …”

Sophia turned. “René, you love me, yes?”

His brow went up. “Yes.”

“And I love you, too. Then will you marry me? Right now?”

He stuttered. “Well … yes. I …”

She spun on her heel. “Tom, do I have your blessing?”

Tom shrugged from behind the squirming Mrs. Rathbone; Francois did indeed have the knife at her throat. “All right, Sophie.”

“Maman,” said René, “is the money in Kent?”

“Not anymore, cher.” Madame reached into the black bag she’d been carrying and set a box on the table. She opened it with an unsteady hand, and inside was a plastic bottle, perfect, without dents, its cap in place, a faded, scratched, but still legible plastic wrapping around its middle. Just above the lettering was the tiny word DIET.

There was a surprised silence from the room, made even louder by the banging of the sheriff. René shook his head. “Were you really not going to say something, Maman?”

Madame tossed her bedraggled hair. “She was the one who left it to the last moment.” The door banged harder; it sounded as if he were ramming it with something.

“Émile, how much is that worth?” Sophia asked quickly.

He was bent over with a tiny eyescope, inspecting the bottle carefully. “The fee,” he said. “Ten thousand in quidden, or probably more.”

“There is a … valuation, signed, in the box,” muttered Madame. “Could I please trouble anyone for a bowl?”

“That will do, then,” said Sophia. “Can I borrow that?” She took the black bag without Madame’s answer, shutting the box and shoving it inside. “Tom, come with us and be witness before the sheriff takes you …”

The door shuddered on its hinges.

“And, Benoit, see what you can do about her,” she said, tilting her head at Mrs. Rathbone. “We have a sheriff here, the body of the hotelier buried on the cliff, and you and Orla as witnesses. And I’m sure Jennifer Bonnard would not mind backing up whatever you decide to say. It wouldn’t hurt to let the sheriff know Mrs. Rathbone was trying to buy the house, too, since she ratted out Tom. He won’t like that.” Mrs. Rathbone struggled, then remembered the knife. “See if you can’t get her tossed out of the Commonwealth at the least.”

“That can be done, Mademoiselle,” Benoit said, still smiling.

“I leave it in your hands.”

“And Miss Bellamy,” said Madame, her voice a bit weak, “when you return, I’d like to discuss the empty building on your grounds, and the empty cottages, the prisoners in your house who have nowhere to go, and the need for Hasard Glass to … relocate.”

“Of course,” Sophia replied, pausing for a moment. What an interesting thought. Perhaps she and Madame would have more in common than previously anticipated. “Have coffee with Tom and me tomorrow at middlesun,” she said. “Or make that the day after tomorrow.” She started toward the pantry door, and then looked back at René and Tom. The other door was beginning to splinter. “Are you coming? Either of you?”