of me, then whirled back to the basil on the chopping board.
Greg came in and emptied his overstuffed pockets into a basket set on the counter for exactly that purpose. I was impressed by the range and amount of detritus that ended up in the basket.
“All right, Jane?” he said.
“Everything’s just about set,” she called over her shoulder as she chopped. “There’s a paper by your chair; wedidn’t have the hands to fetch one on the way, but I dashed across the street while Emma was having her bath.”
“Makes you dizzy to watch her, doesn’t it?” Greg asked me fondly.
“I feel like a princess,” I replied, “all looked after.”
“Greg, if you’ll grab those two bowls, I believe we are ready to begin.”
Greg set the food on the table and Jane finally sat down, and it was as if I had been holding my breath the entire time. Jane’s imitation of a whirlwind had exhausted me.
We dawdled over dinner, talking for a couple of hours; as curious as I was about the modern burial, I held off asking; Jane looked too relaxed to bring up work and, heaven knew, it would be there tomorrow. Even though we’d dined fairly early—just about six o’clock—I found myself almost sinking asleep into my plate by eight-thirty.
“Emma, don’t try to fight it,” Greg insisted. “We’ve all had one hell of a day and we’ll be the better for it if we make an early night of it. We’ll be down here for a while, but if you need anything, our room is on the second floor.”
“Yes, do go up. Sleep well, Emma,” Jane chimed in. She looked quite relaxed now, her knees drawn up, feet resting on another chair, cheeks flushed with food and wine.
“Thanks, I will. Dinner was wonderful, good night.”
I had intended to go straight up to my room, but as I passed the parlor, I noticed the bookcases and couldn’t resist a peek. You learn so much about people by their taste in books.
The wall by the door was covered in framed photos and bookcases. One bookshelf was for work, it seemed, full of titles by and about Chaucer, Christine de Pizan, and Hildegard of Bingen. There were some duplicates, probably where Jane and Greg’s collections overlapped. On the next I saw lots of Orwell, lots of Lawrence and Woolf, followed by a whole row of Wodehouse. Right, I thought, those first will be Jane’s and the next will be Greg’s. When I snuck a look at the flyleaf of The Inimitable Jeeves , however, I saw Jane’sdecisive signature as well. Maybe Greg’s were the collection of dog-eared Tom Clancys?
As I reached for the book, Greg came into the room. “Aha, I’ve caught you. Share Jane’s addiction for spy novels, do you?”
“Not really. These are all hers?”
“Yeah, my taste runs more to nonfiction, architecture, natural history, that sort of thing. Nothing so psychological or technological. They’re upstairs, if you’re interested.”
“Not really, I’m just being nosy. I was heading for the photos next.”
“Oh, well, by all means, let me guide you. Here’s a good one.”
Greg pointed to a photo of him and Jane, he in a suit, Jane formal in academic robes adorned with the braid and fur I’ve always envied my European counterparts as well as the usual velvet hood and tam. She was beaming brighter than a thousand suns and I thought it was nicely appropriate that a scholar of medieval archaeology should be garbed in robes that had their origin in the Middle Ages.
“She’d just got her PhD. We went to the Lake District for a week after that, and spent most of the time hiking, drinking, or in bed.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It was good. I finished the year after, and we went back to the same place, over here.” In this picture, the pair of them were grinning cheesily for the camera, small peaks in the distance behind them. “I didn’t go to the ceremony.”
“Oh?”
“Well, honestly, I wasn’t bothered. Some old man in muttering Latin over me wasn’t going to turn me into an archaeologist, was
Greg came in and emptied his overstuffed pockets into a basket set on the counter for exactly that purpose. I was impressed by the range and amount of detritus that ended up in the basket.
“All right, Jane?” he said.
“Everything’s just about set,” she called over her shoulder as she chopped. “There’s a paper by your chair; wedidn’t have the hands to fetch one on the way, but I dashed across the street while Emma was having her bath.”
“Makes you dizzy to watch her, doesn’t it?” Greg asked me fondly.
“I feel like a princess,” I replied, “all looked after.”
“Greg, if you’ll grab those two bowls, I believe we are ready to begin.”
Greg set the food on the table and Jane finally sat down, and it was as if I had been holding my breath the entire time. Jane’s imitation of a whirlwind had exhausted me.
We dawdled over dinner, talking for a couple of hours; as curious as I was about the modern burial, I held off asking; Jane looked too relaxed to bring up work and, heaven knew, it would be there tomorrow. Even though we’d dined fairly early—just about six o’clock—I found myself almost sinking asleep into my plate by eight-thirty.
“Emma, don’t try to fight it,” Greg insisted. “We’ve all had one hell of a day and we’ll be the better for it if we make an early night of it. We’ll be down here for a while, but if you need anything, our room is on the second floor.”
“Yes, do go up. Sleep well, Emma,” Jane chimed in. She looked quite relaxed now, her knees drawn up, feet resting on another chair, cheeks flushed with food and wine.
“Thanks, I will. Dinner was wonderful, good night.”
I had intended to go straight up to my room, but as I passed the parlor, I noticed the bookcases and couldn’t resist a peek. You learn so much about people by their taste in books.
The wall by the door was covered in framed photos and bookcases. One bookshelf was for work, it seemed, full of titles by and about Chaucer, Christine de Pizan, and Hildegard of Bingen. There were some duplicates, probably where Jane and Greg’s collections overlapped. On the next I saw lots of Orwell, lots of Lawrence and Woolf, followed by a whole row of Wodehouse. Right, I thought, those first will be Jane’s and the next will be Greg’s. When I snuck a look at the flyleaf of The Inimitable Jeeves , however, I saw Jane’sdecisive signature as well. Maybe Greg’s were the collection of dog-eared Tom Clancys?
As I reached for the book, Greg came into the room. “Aha, I’ve caught you. Share Jane’s addiction for spy novels, do you?”
“Not really. These are all hers?”
“Yeah, my taste runs more to nonfiction, architecture, natural history, that sort of thing. Nothing so psychological or technological. They’re upstairs, if you’re interested.”
“Not really, I’m just being nosy. I was heading for the photos next.”
“Oh, well, by all means, let me guide you. Here’s a good one.”
Greg pointed to a photo of him and Jane, he in a suit, Jane formal in academic robes adorned with the braid and fur I’ve always envied my European counterparts as well as the usual velvet hood and tam. She was beaming brighter than a thousand suns and I thought it was nicely appropriate that a scholar of medieval archaeology should be garbed in robes that had their origin in the Middle Ages.
“She’d just got her PhD. We went to the Lake District for a week after that, and spent most of the time hiking, drinking, or in bed.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It was good. I finished the year after, and we went back to the same place, over here.” In this picture, the pair of them were grinning cheesily for the camera, small peaks in the distance behind them. “I didn’t go to the ceremony.”
“Oh?”
“Well, honestly, I wasn’t bothered. Some old man in muttering Latin over me wasn’t going to turn me into an archaeologist, was
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