“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, gripping the marble counter behind her as her fingers trembled. “What do we do?”

His whispered answer came seconds later along with the gentle swipe of his thumb across her cheek, where a stubborn tear was falling. “Let’s—”

A clang made her jump. Bo pulled away. They both peered into the glaring light of the kitchen, where Greta stood in her nightdress, silver hair falling down her back. She was moving the noisy teakettle off the burner.

Astrid had never even heard it whistling.

—

Bo reluctantly left Astrid and Greta alone in the kitchen. Now that the house’s resident nosey parker was up and about, he’d get no chance to finish his conversation with Astrid. And maybe that was just as well, because he’d almost gone too far. Been too greedy. Too weak. His pulse pounded like he’d been running up Lombard Street with a sack of bricks, and his head was spinning with possibilities. He prowled through the dark house with her words repeating in an endless loop.

What do we do?

He didn’t know. At least, not what they should do. He certainly knew what he wanted to do, and that was what had crouched on his tongue, ready to springboard, when Greta had interrupted.

But was it the right thing? Or did he even care what was right anymore?

He just wasn’t sure.

One thing he did know was that Astrid wasn’t safe, and that was something he could fix. Would fix. He jogged downstairs, but instead of turning right to head to his room, he took a left and stole into the community room. A black candlestick telephone stood on a table in the corner. He picked up the earpiece and waited for the operator to answer. Asked her to connect him to the Saint Francis admitting desk and prayed that a particular admissions-desk nurse he’d talked to the night of Astrid’s hospital trip was working the same late shift. He knew her outside of work, vaguely. They’d crossed paths in a small speakeasy near the hospital once before. Her boyfriend was a second cousin of Hezekiah from Gris-Gris; sometimes he thought half the people in this town were related.

And as luck would have it, she was working tonight.

“Nurse Sue, this is Bo Yeung.”

“Oh, hello, Bo,” she said, cheerful and open. “What can I do for you?”

“It has to do with those survivors of that missing yacht. I was wondering if you could tell me whether they were still at the hospital.”

“You and everyone else wants to know,” she said in lower voice. “Reporters been calling here nonstop. But no, they were discharged a few hours after we spoke. Police chief allowed them to be transferred into Mrs. Cushing’s care. The widow who was making a scene, you remember?”

“I do, indeed. Say, you wouldn’t happen to have Mrs. Cushing’s address on file, would you?”

Her voice fell to a whisper. “We’re not supposed to give it out, but I can probably get back into records after my shift. Won’t be until after nine A.M., though.”

“Would you? I’d owe you an awfully big favor.”

“I like the sound of that,” she teased. “Oh, I just remembered something. My coworker told me that she had someone come by earlier today and ask about Miss Magnusson. Wanted to know her name.”

“Oh really? Who was this person?”

“The man didn’t say. But don’t worry, she wasn’t stupid enough to give out your address.” It didn’t really matter; the entire city knew where to find the Magnussons and therefore Bo.

“Please let me know if anyone else asks about Miss Magnusson. And in the meantime, if you can get your hands on Mrs. Cushing’s address, leave me a message at Pier 26, no matter the hour. And I’ll be happy to have someone drop off a little thank-you gift for your effort.”

“I am rather fond of gin . . .”

“Your wish is my command, Nurse Sue. Consider it done.”

TEN

It took a long time for Astrid to fall asleep that night. The potent combination of Greta’s poorly timed interruption and Velma’s herbal tea were enough to give any sane person nightmares, and after she’d left the kitchen, Astrid had lain wide awake in bed, replaying every moment in the pantry with Bo.

The things he said. How close he’d been. The way he made her feel, all raw and jumbled up. Anxious. Out of control.

Let’s—

Let’s what? Let’s throw caution to the wind and run away together? Let’s end this all now? Let’s cool down and discuss this later?

When it came to Bo, she’d done her share of hoping that he might share her feelings—every day, for weeks and months and years. But before last night, she had hoped in a blind sort of way, taking whatever crumbs Bo dropped and fashioning them into some sort of shaky shelter that only partially kept out the bad weather. Now he’d given her more than crumbs. He’d handed over a few pieces of lumber, and her former lean-to was now transformed into a shack: still leaky, but a strong gust of wind might not instantly blow it over.

She’d fallen asleep beneath that shelter, wanting him more than ever. And more fearful that if it did fall, she’d be crushed under the weight of it.

No sense in being so nervous, she told herself the next morning. It was only Bo. No matter what happened between them, they were friends, and they would handle it with grace and good humor. Everything was fixable.

And today Astrid aimed to fix two problems at once.

After bathing and dressing, she took the birdcage elevator down and found the house abuzz with good cheer. In the foyer, Greta stood on a tall ladder surrounded with giggling maids who were helping to put up Christmas greenery. And even though everyone had already eaten breakfast—except Aida, who was still pale, still possibly pregnant, still trying to hide it from Winter—Astrid was happy to dine alone, and gulped down strong coffee with a slice of rye toast and a soft-boiled egg. Then she went hunting.