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“You’ve shocked me, yes, but you haven’t scandalized me.”

“I … well, all right, then. So, should I do it?”

“My dear, you are going to have to provide me with some context! You are going to have to sit down right here and talk for ages!”

The way she patted the space next to her on the bed also reminded Diantha of Thea, so much so that it gave her pause.

“Are you quite all right?” Miss Morgan asked. “Apart from the question at hand, which I concede might be quite discomposing.”

“Yes. You merely reminded me of my sister there for a moment, and I … I miss her so very much.”

“Oh, Miss Brown. I’m so sorry.”

People said things like that all the time, tossed off condolences as if they were weather reports. The words themselves had become devalued, Diantha often thought. But not with Miss Morgan.

Miss Morgan managed to imbue them with an urgency that felt genuine. And then she added: “I don’t know how I would go on if my sister died.”

“You just do.”

“I suppose you do, but I imagine the world is never the same.”

All Diantha could do was nod, for her throat was suddenly clogged with tears.

Miss Morgan regarded Diantha for a long time, as if she knew she needed a moment, before saying, “Will you come sit beside me and tell me what is on your mind?”

Yes. She had never wanted anything more, suddenly.

She moved to the bed, only for Miss Morgan to get up.

“I shall be right back!” she said, and after a quick trip to a half-unpacked trunk in the corner, she returned with a bottle of brandy.

Diantha was startled. It wasn’t even noon, and brandy was not a very ladylike libation.

Miss Morgan proceeded to slosh some brandy into a teacup. “Oh, don’t look so scandalized, Miss Brown. It doesn’t suit you.” She added a splash of tea, took a sip, and said, “A little brandy in one’s tea is sometimes just the thing. But I only have the one cup, so we shall have to share.” She held out the cup.

“I think those proportions would suggest a little tea in your brandy is just the thing. But why not?” Diantha took the cup and sipped.

“I knew I liked you, Miss Brown.”

“Would you call me Diantha?” The request was probably improper, but so was drinking brandy at half eleven. She and Miss Morgan were both the daughters of gentlemen. While the household generally deferred to formal address, there was no reason Diantha shouldn’t call friends by their given names. She just didn’t have any friends.

Well, except Simon, of course. Her cheeks heated, thinking of him saying her name last night, first as if he were issuing a warning, and then as if he were flying the white flag of surrender.

Olive smiled. “Diantha. Your name is much prettier than mine. You are a goddess. I am a fruit. An ugly fruit. My sister gets Clementine, and I get Olive. The injustice!”

Miss Morgan’s—Olive’s—mock pouting was putting Diantha at ease. Or perhaps credit for that ought to go to brandy-with-a-splash-of-tea.

“Yes,” Olive went on, “we shall use each other’s Christian names, but the degree of informality implied by such also dictates that you must tell me why you were blushing a moment ago.”

“If I was blushing, it was because I was recalling a conversation I recently had.”

“You were recalling a conversation? Is that what we’re calling it?”

Diantha laughed along with Olive. “It was a conversation I was recalling, but … there are other activities I could recall if I so chose.”

“Once again, I implore you to speak plainly.”

All right. This was what she’d come here for. It was going better than she’d expected. She forced herself to maintain an outwardly calm tone as she said, “I have kissed the gentleman in question on the mouth. I have been in a state of undress with him.”