That she took . . . them . . . to—”
“Lucy,” Olivia cut in evenly.
The musical interlude came to an abrupt stop, and a deafening silence filled the void. Olivia understood how to use her quiet reserve to great effect.
“Yes, Mummy?” Lucy asked, eyes all wide innocence.
“Perhaps this piece has veered a bit off track?”
“Perhaps,” Lucy replied, sounding not at all convinced.
Mariana caught Olivia’s eye. She recognized a smile in there for their precocious daughters. Words had never been all that necessary between them. Except now . . .
Now she harbored a secret that would change, possibly destroy, the life Olivia had built for herself this last decade.
As she closed the short distance between them, it occurred to Mariana that for the first time in her life she had no idea what to say to her sister. She settled onto the dense Aubusson carpet beside Olivia, who was still watchfully perched on the low footstool, and glanced at the half-finished sketch.
“You’ve captured them down to their most frivolous essence,” Mariana said, her eyes lifting toward the duo, who had moved on to Herr Mozart, judging by the rapid succession of notes sounding from the piano. “Have you and the girls had the house to yourselves?”
“Until this morning,” Olivia replied, a distracted note in her voice as she continued watching the girls and scratching charcoal against paper. “Uncle and Aunt arrived just before tea, and now you’re here a few hours later.”
“And where is Aunt?” Mariana asked when she really wanted to know about Uncle.
How difficult it was to stop being a spy.
“Resting,” Olivia replied. “The journey from Paris wasquite traumatic.” Neither Mariana nor Olivia could resist a wry smile. They knew their aunt well.
“And Uncle?” Mariana asked, trying to sound natural, which meant she surely didn’t. Olivia wouldn’t miss that, but she might keep it to herself. Her still waters ran deep.
“In his study,” she replied.
A comfortable silence settled in as they watched the girls compose another set of bawdy lyrics. Herr Mozart would have been delighted. Herr Beethoven? Likely not.
Olivia’s hand stilled, and her discerning gaze focused on Mariana. “You are altered from when I last saw you.”
“Me?”—Mariana forced a laugh—“I never change. You know that.”
“Do I?” Olivia’s head tilted quizzically. “Sometimes I feel like there’s an entire world inside you that I know nothing about.”
“You would be the only person who sees that in me.”
“Oh, I think there is one other person,” Olivia said, discreetly returning her attention to the sketch.
She was, of course, speaking of Nick.
“You’ve always liked Nick,” Mariana said, trying, and failing, to keep a crack out of her voice. It was the first time she’d spoken his name since she’d left Paris.
“For the most part,” Olivia said on a nod. “I just wish he’d made you happier, but with that poisonous mother and father of his, I’m not sure he knew how.”
A sudden charge of emotion clogged Mariana’s throat. Olivia never wasted time with small talk. She cut straight to the quick.
Olivia continued in her soft, reedy voice, “You found him?”
“Oh, yes,” Mariana croaked. She couldn’t help a dry laugh. “Look at us. Two married spinsters.”
Olivia’s eyebrows knit together. “I’m a widow, Mariana.”
“Of course,” she said quickly, a needle of panic shooting through her.
