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“Terrible,” Lucy offered. “Tripe spouting. Intolerable.”

Lavinia laughed aloud, then sighed. “I was intolerable too, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” Lucy blinked at her.

Lavinia flushed. She’d been horrible to Lucy. And Lucy had repaid her with kindness.

“I was intolerable.” Lavinia looked away. “I can see now that it’s nonsense. Society. I’ve been telling myself I don’t care if I’m shunned forever. Good riddance. But . . .” She hesitated, glanced back. Could Lucy understand the difficulty? “I was so popular for so long. That life is all I know.” As soon as she said it, the enormity struck her afresh. What viable alternative existed? “I can’t about-face and go to Girton!”

In the resounding silence, she had time to regret her outburst.

“Girton?” Lucy raised an eyebrow. “Golly.”

“I’m not saying I’m empty-headed.” Lavinia smoothed her skirt, too energetically. More of a stinging slap, really. “I could go to Girton.”

“Admirable plan.” Lucy gave a sharp nod. A moment later Lavinia heard her hairpin ping on the tile.

“Bother.” Lucy prodded her pile of uncooperative curls, lifting her feet and peering beneath them.

“It’s there, to your left. Oh, never mind, I’ll get it.” Lavinia bestirred herself from the bench. She had to crouch to feel for the bloody thing between the legs of the easel. When she gripped it with her fingertips, she wiggled backward and bumped into Lucy, who let her own crouch collapse into a sprawl. Surprised, Lavinia went down hard on her bottom.

The tile felt warm, even through her skirts.

Two duchesses, flopped on the floor.

But, such duchesses! Neither of them a proper lady. Lavinia supposed the floor was fitting enough.

“Your Grace.” She handed the hairpin to Lucy with a sigh.

“Thank you.” Lucy stabbed with the pin, then tucked her legs beneath her, making no effort to rise.

“Cat’s-eye view,” she remarked pleasantly. “We can all benefit from a change of perspective. So, you’re going to Girton.”

“I’m not going to Girton.” Lavinia hugged her knees to her chest. She felt smaller, all the bright air and glass far above them. “I meant I could but . . .”

Why go on? It was all too obvious.

“Golly.” She muttered it herself.

“What are you going to do?” Lucy looked at her sidelong. Her eyes were as sharp as ever, but the situation was utterly disarming. They sat on the ground, for heaven’s sake, like girls at play with dolls.

“I don’t know.” Lavinia buried her chin between her knees. “I wish I were a cat.”

Lucy giggled. No, Lavinia hadn’t misheard. Giggled.

“You’d be a lovely cat,” she said. “I’d paint a portrait of you to hang alongside Mouser at Rest.”

She was a peculiar woman. Easy to talk to, once you got the hang of it. Dropped to the ground. Forwent formalities. Said whatever crossed your mind.

Lavinia rather enjoyed her company.

“How nice it must be.” She straightened her legs, propped herself on an arm. “To be able to paint.”

“It is.” Again a sharp nod from Lucy. This time, the hairpins stayed put. “But then, it’s nice to do anything well.”

Lavinia thought, suddenly, of saffron buns. Knowing how to bake them, and how to eat them. She thought of the way Neal slid plants into his vasculum. Of the way Neal . . .

She sat up straighter. “I suppose that’s true.”