Chapter Twenty-one: "Between the mirror and the heart is this single difference: the heart conceals secrets, while the mirror does not." ~ Rumi

The black car is still there and waiting for me when I emerge, blinking a bit in the bright day. Through the open car window I can see Davies behind the wheel chatting away on his mobile, and a flash of gold on his right hand catches the sun for an instant. Gold ring on the right hand? As I step closer and reach for the rear door handle, I take a good look at Davies' hand holding the phone up to his ear. Yep, exactly like Mycroft's, a plain gold band. I guess I just didn't notice it before.

I check out Brown's right hand as I click on my seatbelt; no ring. I guess they don't all have them, or maybe it's a coincidence that Mycroft and Davies do; someday I might get up the nerve to ask about it. Davies ends his call, and glances a question at me in the rearview as he starts the car. I ask him to please drop me off at the flat; he just nods, and drives.

Looking at the city rolling by outside the window, I consider my list, and the next twenty-four hours or so. On a practical note, I need to stock up on whatever groceries I'll need for the weekend, and work out until I'm exhausted; that way, lying about all day Saturday will be a welcome respite and not a penance. On an impractical note, I am obsessed with talking to Lestrade. I really want to know if Mycroft is keeping the extent of Doreshchenko's operation to himself; it's likely that he is, I just really want to know for sure. Will I mess things up if I tell Lestrade the little bit I know? I bet Mycroft has already anticipated that, so probably not. Besides, I don't plan on telling the inspector everything, just tipping him off that Doreshchenko is branching out into drug manufacture and distribution.

And I'm certainly not going to mention that Mycroft did his own investigation into Steen's death; he seems quite content to let people believe he's the baddie if they want to - I don't feel a need to try and change the inspector's mind about that. Besides, Lestrade might turn up something interesting.

And there's also that other thing, damn it. Reluctantly, I admit to myself that I also need to tell Lestrade about the blackmail photographs that I found of Calypso and that mustached bloke, Cobb. I'm not certain that those made their way over to Scotland Yard either, and that bit of news could make a difference in Lestrade's investigation into the escort murders. Mycroft probably doesn't care about that, but I do.

I haven't wanted to think about it at all, because of how it makes me feel about Calypso, but the fact that she was involved in sexually abusing a minor with Cobb means that he had one hell of a motive to have her murdered; he may even have thought she was the one blackmailing him. I doubt that he would've shot her himself, but he looked like he could afford to hire a killer - and maybe one clever enough, and ruthless enough, to try and disguise the real reason for her murder by killing two more escorts. Both Mycroft and Lestrade seemed absolutely certain that it wasn't a serial killer, and I'm inclined to believe them.

It makes me a little queasy to think about this whole thing, because I'm having a hard time reconciling my opinion of Calypso with what I saw in that photo. I just can't believe ... but I don't know the whole story, and likely never will. Maybe she was forced into it, as much a victim as that girl. In any case, whoever shot Calypso and Regina and Tanya in cold blood needs to be taken off the streets and locked up for good, and so does whoever arranged it.

Davies and Brown drop me off without a word in front of the blue door on the quiet cobblestone street; it's good to be home. I toss my parcels onto the sofa, and go dirty the freshened kitchen by making myself a quick lunch.

I start dawdling over my phone as I eat, getting engrossed in some twaddle on the blogosphere - and I'm perfectly aware that I'm stalling. Well, Angelica, either do it, or don't do it. I send Lestrade a brief text explaining that I have some new information to share, and to please contact me ASAP. There.

Flopping into an armchair, I heave a huge sigh. Now I have to decide, should I continue to try and keep my contact with Lestrade a secret, or just go ahead and be brazen about it? I value Mycroft's trust, and sneaking around looks like I'm trying to hide things from him. Well, maybe I am, but I don't want it to look that way ... besides, I have the nagging feeling that my little subterfuges are fairly lame anyway, so, really, what's the point? If the inspector wants to meet in person, then I'll just go and meet him, no more cloak-and-dagger stuff. It occurs to me that Mycroft has not actually forbidden me to talk to Lestrade, which is very interesting. He told me not to pursue investigating Steen's murder, but never told me to not contact Lestrade or tell him anything. I start considering whether that might be all part of some plan, a subtle manipulation ... but trying to unravel it makes my head spin after a while, and I decide that nobody could be that devious.

In an effort to not climb the walls, I've unwrapped, admired, tried on and put away all my new clothes by the time the inspector finally gets back to me; he calls instead of texting back, and he is very brusque and to-the-point. As I suspected, he had no idea about Doreshchenko's drug venture, and is keenly interested in my source for the information.

"Well, it's firsthand information, and I don't have any reason to doubt that it's accurate, Inspector."

"Firsthand, as in straight from Doreshchenko? You heard this from him, yourself?" He sounds a little doubtful, and I don't blame him.

"Yes."

There is a long pause. "So you have been to see Mad Sacha, then? Is that what you are saying?"

I swallow a little uncomfortably. I hadn't thought about the reaction when I imagined telling him this stuff. "Yes."

"And why on earth would he just tell you all about his new enterprises?"

I really don't want to go into a big long explanation, so I decide to hide behind Mycroft's coat-tails. "I'm sorry, how I came by the information is classified, but I am telling you what I was told by Doreshchenko himself, and it's up to you if you want to believe it or not. If he was lying to me, all you'll lose is a few man-hours following up on it; if he wasn't, then you have an opportunity to shut him down, and possibly find something that could help in ... other cases. It's a solid tip." There is another long pause. "You're welcome," I add quietly.

He sighs in frustration. "There's more that you're not saying, I can tell."

"No you can't tell, you're just guessing, but...Well, I should think you'd be happy that I'm taking the trouble to tell you this much."

"Yeah, terribly grateful for any crumbs ..." He must be having a bad day, to come out that snarky. I decide it's time to make his day a little better.

"Here's a bigger morsel for you, then. I have a tip on a suspect and a motive in the escort murders..." I describe to Lestrade the photo that I saw, in enough detail to make me feel slightly nauseated, and who was in it. Of course, he wants to know where that piece of evidence is at the moment.

"Sorry, but it's -"

"Classified, right?" he doesn't even wait for me to reply. "Thought so. I can't launch an investigation on a high-profile suspect without hard evidence behind me, you should know that!"

"Yes, of course I do! Sorry that I can't hand the evidence to you on a silver platter, Inspector, but it's out of my hands, literally. All I can do is point you in the right direction, and trust that you can find more if you know where to look."

"And why am I supposed to believe that it's the right direction?" he snaps.

I huff at him in exasperation. "Give me a break! What would I have to gain by pointing you in the wrong one? I don't get my fun from wasting your time, and if I were trying to frame someone, then wouldn't I be feeding you false evidence, not just giving tips?"

"I suppose so," he says grudgingly.

"Your turn, now," I tell him. "Is there anything new you can tell me?" Yes, I'm testing, to see if he'll tell me what I know from John.

There is another long pause. "There is. It's not much, but we were able to follow up on the two Iranians, and no terrorist affiliations at all. So much for your racial profiling, Miss Talbot."

"But...?"

He sighs. "But, they are connected with the Russians. Specifically, Doreshchenko's organization."

"Connected how?"

"We don't know yet, not exactly, although we have a reliable inside informant who gave us evidence that they are on the payroll. He was supposed to pass along more information a few days ago, but he seems to have disappeared." I can hear the shrug in his voice. "It happens."

I have a sudden suspicion. "Is this informant a young ginger bloke, calls himself Dimitri?"

Lestrade sounds surprised. "Yes! Yes he is. What do you know about him?"

That turd certainly got around. "That he's a complete and utter arsehole, mainly. And very possibly dead, which wouldn't make me at all unhappy. He was double-dipping for someone named Mica, and apparently also feeding you information as well. I guess he had some expensive habits and had to pay the bills somehow..."

I can hear the mental wheels turning through the phone. "Well, what he passed along to us was evidence, not just talk, so I haven't any reason to be doubtful about it. He also worked for Mica, eh? Interesting. Oh, hold for a minute, will you? " I can hear the murmuring of other voices in the background, and a moment later Lestrade is back. "I have to go. Contact me if there's anything else, and I'll get back to you when I can, okay?"

I agree, and that's that. Well, nothing much new, except that now I'm sure that Mycroft is withholding information from the police left and right. He's probably trying to reduce the variables, hoping to keep things contained. And then there's me, like some erratic spark jumping between crossed wires ... if that is the case, though, why does he let me do it? Either he doesn't know, which I have a hard time believing, or else my actions don't really have an impact. If there's a third option I can't see it right now... Well, there'll be plenty of time to think and reflect this weekend.

I'm just pulling myself together to get out the door for groceries and such, when I get a text - from Sara? I'm immediately suspicious, she never texts me. Seriously, I think it's been years since she did. Please call me very soon! Quite urgent! it says.

Obviously, she read somewhere that people who text use lots and lots of exclamation marks ... I know I'm rolling my eyes as I perch on the arm of the sofa and hit her number. What could be so urgent? Emergencies are things that happen to other people; Sara is far too careful for that. And I reckon that she texted me instead of calling to extend the olive branch, a token of doing things my way instead of hers for a change.

She answers right away. "That was fast!"

"Well, all those exclamation marks got me so excited, I couldn't help myself. What's up? Has something happened?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to worry you; it's not really a big deal, it's just a...thing. So, how have you been?" I hear dogs yipping and barking in the background, meaning she is in the kennel ward, probably doing her rounds.

"I'm great. Fantastic. You?" That might have sounded sarcastic; sometimes I don't hear it in myself.

There's a pause, and I can tell she's wondering whether to pry or not. She decides against it. "I'm fine, yeah, things are going great. It's been busy." There's another pause. "Listen, are you free tonight? Are you ... working, or have plans with friends or anything?"

"No, I don't have any commitments - it's a Thursday! Not a super busy night, generally. What's up?"

Sara takes a deep breath. "Well, I know that this is incredibly last-minute, and you don't have to say yes unless you want to, I will absolutely understand if you don't want to be bothered with this but it would mean a lot, you know?" She stops for another breath, and I wait patiently for her to get to the point. It's hard for her to ask for favors, even from me; she's usually the one doing them. "So, this week has been the London Vet Show, of course, and we've just been frantic with it, the BVA congress was an absolute zoo this year ... anyway, tonight is the Gala Dinner, you know? To benefit the Animal Welfare Foundation. And we're going, of course, and Richard has this friend -"

"- who needs a date tonight?"

Sara exhales. "Yeah. He's from out of town, and he's really nice. We had someone lined up for him, we bought the tickets and everything, but she canceled on us and he won't go if he doesn't have a date. Could you make it? It would mean a lot to me and Richard if you would."

Well, I could give a rat's arse about Richard, but I will help my sister out. It's what we do. Even sisters who move their twit boyfriends in and toss their only living relative out on the pavements...

"I can make it. What time? What venue? And please tell me that he's young and handsome. It would be great to at least have something pretty to look at over dinner." Not that it will be much of a dinner; these charity do's seem to be overcharged, overcooked, and overdone. I've worked as an escort at a couple of them, and they are awful - and the sex afterwards tends to be stupefyingly dull, although I certainly won't have to be worrying about that.

Sara hesitates before answering, not a good sign. "He's, ah, not exactly young ... but very nice! Just a really nice man, you know?" What I know is that she's called him "nice" three times in the last thirty seconds. This doesn't bode well for a sparkling evening, but hey, I'm a professional, I can handle it.

Sara goes on, "Chelsea Harbour Hotel is the venue, it's a really posh place, you'll love it. It's only like ten minutes away from you, I think. The dinner starts with drinks at seven, and there's dancing until midnight ..."

The Chelsea really isn't bad at all; the views from the penthouse suites are spectacular, especially at night. Well, I've only ever been there at night, but it was an awesome view. "It's not a black-tie affair, is it? I'll have to pick something up quick if it is, all my evening dresses are still boxed up at your and Richard's flat." Snark.

She ignores the dig. "No black-tie, just lounge suits and cocktail dresses. I'll be wearing that blue one I have, with the ruffles; Richard likes it."

Hmmm, there's certainly an awful lot of Richard in her conversation. "Just this morning I scored an Ann Sui, ecru lace over black satin, it should be perfect... Shoes! I have to check and make sure I have shoes for it. Is this bloke short?" Please let him at least be a reasonable height! It doesn't matter all that much, but it does matter.

"He's about the same height as Richard, maybe a teeny bit taller, so I think you could get away with high heels."

"Perfect."

"And, ah, Richard asked if you could say that you work as a PA for a civil servant, okay? He wants you to come across like you're respectable."

I snort, but don't voice what I think Richard can do with his respectability. "Actually, that's not too far from the truth, except that I'm an EPA, really. An Extremely Personal Assistant." She doesn't even chuckle. "Don't worry, I will be as refined and respectable as any of the nobs there. Probably moreso. Do you want to meet in the hotel lobby at seven?"

"Make it six forty-five, okay?"

"I'll be there."

I gaze at the phone in my hand after we hang up. Amazing how quickly things can change!

The rest of the day, what little there is of it, passes in a blur. I splurge on a cab to go get supplies, since there won't be time for the leisurely shopping trip I had envisioned, and ruthlessly purge my to-do list. At times like this I realize how many hours I waste just plodding along; when I have some proper motivation behind me, I am a whirlwind of efficiency.

By six-fifteen I am painted, polished, primped, and suited up, and by six-forty I am emerging from a taxicab in front of the wide glass doors of the Chelsea. The lobby is thronged with people in their gala dinner attire, their chatter echoing shrilly off the mirror-polished green marble floor and high ceilings. I wrinkle my nose as I locate an empty sofa cushion to perch on in the sitting area; this place is designed to impress in a grand way, but I really prefer the cozy elegance of little boutique hotels.

Sara arrives on her Richard's arm a few minutes later, looking very cute and pleased with herself in a flouncy teal number. The bloke trailing after her and Richard is tall and sandy-haired, with a nervous smile and a very nice suit. He's younger than I expected, which is a plus. He has a full head of hair, double-plus. When introductions are made, the minuses show up: his name is Thomas-but-call-me-Tommy, he's a junior partner in a large-animal surgery, and he's from some tiny seaside village in Devon. Oooh, I bet he'll talk at me all evening about boats. Boats and poxy cows and foot-rotted sheep. How exciting.

Richard announces that the ballroom that is set up for the BVA dinner is on the third floor, and folds his arm around Sara to propel her toward the lifts beside the sitting area. Bless her, Sara balks and looks at me. "Why don't we take the stairs? It's only three floors, and so much healthier to walk! I reckon we'll get there faster, too."

I shake my head imperceptibly at her. "Oh, please, I'd rather take a lift. These shoes are killing me already!" I point at my black stilettos.

"Sure, that's fine," Sara says, but she sounds surprised. Richard looks from Sara to me and back again, then a light dawns in his pale grey eyes just as the lift dings.

He reaches out to hold the cushioned bumpers on the lift doors, keeping them open, and says to Sara, "That's right! Your mum was killed in that horrible acciden-Oof!" Sara is deadly with her elbows, I should know. Serves him right, the knob. I march into the lift, and stand rigidly in the middle of it, waiting. The worst part is, he's completely wrong. I don't know where he got the idea that our mum died in a lift accident, that was somebody else. Mum died at hospital.

There is a long silence as we ride up to our floor and get out; the panic doesn't hit until I'm out of the lift already, and my collywobbles are quickly cured by a glass of wine once we reach the bar. Thomas-call-me-Tommy natters on and on in his broad West Country accent, although he has yet to say anything remotely interesting. He's starting to get on my nerves, and we are barely half an hour into the evening. This is not good.

I realize that Tommy is not just socially awkward; he is scared to death of me, and I am not being terribly kind to him. I am exquisitely aware of all the little things I'm not saying, all the little motions my body is not making, all the myriad ways I know to set a man at ease and make him feel like he's the most fascinating thing on two legs-and I'm not doing a single one of them. That's very interesting. Have I become so used to being paid to act affectionate that I can't even be pleasant for free anymore? Is this what other sex workers mean when they talk about the work getting to you?

Suddenly, Sara takes my wineglass from my hand and sets it down on the bar beside us, grabs my elbow, and drags me into the loo with her before I can even object. Like the lobby, it's all polished green marble and shiny brass, and the little sitting area just inside the door has the same squishy sage-green sofas. Knowing what's coming, I cross my arms and lean against the wall, waiting for Sara to have her say. She closes her eyes and sighs.

"Right. Look, Angelica, I'm sorry, okay? Let's just get that out right up front. I can tell that you are still upset because...for a number of reasons, and I want you to know I appreciate that you came here tonight, despite still being cross about Richard moving in. But, please, don't take it out on Richard's friend."

"I'm not taking anything out on anybody!" I protest. "Just exactly how was I taking it out on him?"

"Not yet, but you were getting ready to, I can tell. Geli, I *know* you! Admit it, you were thinking uncharitable thoughts, weren't you?"

"Yeah, I suppose." Since we're standing right in front of an enormous mirror that covers one wall of the sitting area, I move closer to inspect myself and make sure everything is where it's supposed to be. "I can see why *nice* was the best you could come up with to describe him. Figures he would be a friend of Richard's."

Sara turns to the mirror as well, and fluffs and pulls at her brown curls with a frown. "And you aren't impressed with nice, are you? You've got no use for it."

I frown back at her in the mirror. "That's not true, and it isn't fair, Sara. I like nice blokes just fine -"

"No, you don't," she interrupts flatly. "You never have, and you still don't. Like, take that man that you're involved with right now, for example -"

"I'm not involved!" It comes out louder than I intended, and I spin away from Sara to check the back line of my dress over my shoulder. "He's just a client," I continue in a quieter voice. "Only idiots get involved with clients," I remind her.

"Right. Whatever." Her finely-arched brows knit together. "Well, Mona certainly has some opinions about your client. Frankly, some of what she said made me a little worried for you, but then she's obviously not all there, so I have to take it with a grain of salt."

I halt my primping to gaze directly at Sara. "Who the hell is Mona? And why does she have opinions about Mycroft?"

Sara gives me a what-the-hell look. "You sent her to me, didn't you? She said she was a friend of yours; her ferret has bacterial conjunctivitis, and she wanted a pro bono from me ..."

"Oh! Mad Ferret Lady! She brought Edgar to you already? That's good."

"Mad Ferret Lady, yeah," Sara chuckles. "You're getting as bad as me, knowing the name of the pet but not the owner."

"So, what did she say about Mycroft that was so worrying? And how does she know anything about him?"

"She said that she's been told to be extremely careful around him, that he is a very dangerous man."

That makes me smile as I lean down to pluck at my patterned stockings, straightening the rows of black lace and cinching up my suspenders a bit. Dangerous? Mycroft seems to have power, and I know that I like that about him, but I have a hard time thinking of him as dangerous. Danger is too messy. "Like you said, she isn't all there. And thanks for taking care of the ferret; I owed her a favor, and I didn't think you'd mind too much."

"I don't mind at all, just don't make a habit of it, okay?"

"I won't. So, did Ferret Lady Mona have anything else interesting to say?"

"She didn't shut up the whole time, but most of it was just raving. She went on and on about how your watchers are watched by watchers who are being watched. It made my head spin. And she is obsessed with the idea that the Russians are invading Britain and taking over and going to try to kill us all with torches. I think she's stuck in some mental Cold War time warp. I just nodded and smiled and tended to Edgar. Aside from the eyes, he's in surprisingly good shape; she really tries to take good care of him. Is she one of your psychology projects?"

Russians killing us all with torches? What the hell ...? "Yeah, she's kind of a project. So, what else did she say about Russians and torches? It's, ah, one of her delusions." I pull my tube of lipstick out from my bag to have something to twiddle with.

Sara makes her thinking face in the mirror, pursing her lips and switching them side-to-side. She's such a berk. Finally she says, "There was a bit more, but I can't remember. Sorry." I shrug that it's okay, and she gets her lipstick out, too, and we dab and blot, side by side in the mirror.

I'm obviously going to have to track down Ferret Lady next week and talk to her some more; if Edgar's eyes are better, then she'll be inclined to be even more cooperative. Even a mad woman can have her uses.

Our primping done, and some harmony restored, Sara and I gaze at our reflections in the glass. "Richard's right, you do look great in that dress," I impulsively tell her, but she just huffs at me in disbelief. "No, I mean it! It really shows off your gorgeous womanly bosoms." We both giggle then; that was our Auntie's phrase for tits- she was always very concerned that we adequately cover and control our developing "womanly bosoms."

"Yours don't look so bad in that dress, either," Sara says, but I pull a face at her."Oh, stop it!" She elbows me in the waist. "You're a bloody super-model and you know it, so just stop with the fake humility."

I sigh. "But it's not fake. Do you know how depressingly easy it is for me to pass for a boy? Like, the way I'm built, there's almost no difference. I don't even have to bind what there is of my womanly bosoms; all I have to do is change my clothes and hair and you can call me Roger. Super-model, my arse." I grin at her, remembering a old in-joke. "I have a poor body image, I blame society! I'm oppressed!"

Sara just shakes her head and glances up at the clock on the wall. "Dinner will be starting soon, so let's go and rejoin the representatives of the oppressive patriarchy, shall we?" She sweeps the door open and bows to me. "After you, dear Roger!"

We meet up with Richard and Tommy by the bar, and I have to admit that Sara's instincts were spot-on; I had been working up to a real rage-dump on Mr. Nice, and he really doesn't deserve that. I give him a little more eye contact, a little more smiling, and he relaxes and stops being quite so irritatingly nervous. However, he starts being irritatingly flirtatious, so there might be precious little improvement overall. He takes my hand and places it on his arm as we go from the bar to the ballroom, and pats my hand familiarly. His palms are damp.

The dinner itself begins with an agony of boring speeches, so I amuse myself by sussing out the other diners, seated at the big, round tables. It's always fun to see if there are any previous clients; they almost never recognize me, but if they do a discreet smile and nod is all that's required. Tonight I only recognize two, a het couple that hired me for a threesome back in May. That was quite a lot of fun, especially the woman of the pair, she was wild...I think he fell asleep before she and I were done...oh, look, she saw me looking at them, here's the discreet smile and nod, no problem. From the way she's grinning, I think maybe she recognized me after all; that's nice.

My attention is abruptly riveted to the podium and the boring speeches when I see a face I know stepping up to the microphone; it's Cobb, in all his mustached and pedophilic glory! What is that piece of refuse doing here? He appears to be giving out some award or another for notable efforts in wildlife conservation. I realize that I don't know anything about him except that he has some sort of official position, an office at Whitehall, and enough pull to make Mycroft attend a wedding he didn't want to.

Actually, now that I know Mycroft better, I'm astonished that Cobb managed to get him to show up at all; I can appreciate what torture that event must've been. A noisy crowd of people, sappy sentiment everywhere- no wonder he escaped for a moment of solitude. I wonder what Cobb got out of it? He was showing Mycroft 'round like a trophy, a social coup, but if Mycroft keeps a low profile as part of his self-protection, what was the benefit to Cobb?

Cobb is droning on and on about noble efforts to save the fairy penguins someplace in New Zealand, so I stop listening to what he's saying, and look at what he is communicating in other ways-and suddenly I just know. I know he's bored, going through the motions. I know he's impatient to get done and away from here. He hates everyone in this room, but especially the tiny woman standing just behind and to his right. A blonde-who-should-be-grey, she is painfully thin and dressed in a skimpy black dress that hangs on her. Honestly, she looks like a skeleton in a wig with a face painted on. I reckon she's his wife. He hates her. As he speaks, his hand flicks up again and again to almost, but not quite, touch his nose, and then his eyes flick down at his fingers. He has a cocaine addiction, maybe even snorts stronger stuff. He recently had a nosebleed, and is worried about it happening again, in front of everyone, then everyone would know. He's afraid. He's very afraid...

Cobb hands a dark wooden plaque to the two young men who are called up to collect it, they shake hands, photos are taken, and everyone claps for the child molester as he and his hateful painted skeleton return to the VIP table to sit and wish they were someplace else. I am so going to stalk that man online while I am housebound! I need to know more about him.

We are finally served what passes for dinner, and the table-side entertainment follows along after the serving trays. I'm delighted to see that tonight's entertainment is not silhouette-cutters; lately it's been impossible to avoid these strange little men with their black paper and scissors, I guess it's all the rage. No, the British Vets Association has decreed that we shall have table-side magic shows tonight, which I actually enjoy. I always loved magic acts as a kid, and even when I learned that magicians are all just smoke and mirrors and illusion, I still loved it.

Probably because of my enthusiastic clapping and oooh-ing at his tricks, the magician makes me the focus of his little performance when he gets to our table, and I couldn't be more pleased. Whip-thin and elegant in his black-tie and tails, he does the coin trick, the endless handkerchiefs, the impossible hoops, all of it, and I eat it up, the perfect audience. He ends the performance by giving me a paper posey and a kiss on the cheek, whilst Sara rolls her eyes and mouths, "Show-pony!" at Richard. I don't care, I'm having fun. I watch the magician as he opens his performance at the next table, and there is something about that figure in spotlessly correct formal attire that puts me in mind of Mycroft. He would look good in a suit like that. And that slightly smug half-smile that magicians have, the one that conceals the effort they're putting into appearing effortless, that reminds me of Mycroft as well.

Tommy reclaims my attention, and wants to know if I've ever been sailing. Inwardly, I groan; I knew he was going to talk at me about boats. I hold firmly to my stance that even though I haven't ever been sailing, this does not obligate me to visit him in Devon to try it. His tone goes all too quickly from persuasive to wheedling, and I am just about to snappishly take the piss out of him when my phone chimes softly from inside my little evening bag. I slip it out to check, and it's a text from Mycroft: Terribly sorry, Cinderella, but you will be leaving the ball early. MH

Well, that certainly won't make me sad, but what's going on? I excuse myself from the table, murmuring that I will be right back, and, ignoring Sara's fierce frown, I head for the loo for some privacy.