Chapter 7: Tea

The invitation came on Tuesday morning, on a card as thick as a coaster.

Tea at four. Come alone. Agnes Corwin.

Bram read it over my shoulder and sighed.

"She's seventy-nine, and she's never once asked me to come alone."

"Should I be worried?"

"You should wear flats."

"Why?"

"You may need to run."

"From a grandmother?"

"From this one," he said, "yes."

I wore flats and took the pistol, and left the spare blade in its strap.

The house was a gray stone townhouse in Lincoln Park, set back behind an iron fence.

A housekeeper opened the door before I knocked and led me to a sitting room on the second floor.

It was warm and full of old books.

Agnes Corwin sat in a high-backed chair by the window with a blanket on her knees.

She was tiny, with white hair in a neat bun and a gray cardigan fastened with a pearl pin.

Her eyes were the bluest I'd ever seen.

They looked me over twice, once from the shoes up and once from the face down.

"Sit," she said. "Not there. Where I can see your hands."

I sat on the sofa and put my hands on my knees.

"Good," she said. "You've been told to do that before."

A tea tray stood on the table between us.

Beside it sat a glass bowl heaped with oranges.

I turned my chair a little, so the bowl was behind my shoulder, and I looked at the teapot.

She watched me do it.

She did not say anything.

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