Dreaming of the Bones

friend—someone to confide in, if not to love in the way Daphne had loved Lydia .
    Turning back from the door, Jeanette said, ”Don’t forget I’m going to ferret out that Muriel and send her to you. You’d best be prepared.”
    As she watched her go, Daphne noticed that the cardigan she wore over her navy polyester dress sagged in the back, and a sleeve had started to fray. Jeanette had a birthday coming up—perhaps she should buy her a new one. Of course Jeanette might interpret the gesture as criticism, and Daphne would never wish to hurt her feelings. Maybe she should just leave it alone.
    Rising, Daphne went to the window. Her office was on the second floor, overlooking the circular drive and the parkland running down the road. Even in the early evening dimness she could still see the splash of the daffodils in the grass under the spreading trees. They had been late this spring, hesitant to show their faces after a particularly harsh winter.
    For a moment, she allowed herself the indulgence of imagining that nothing had changed, that she could spend this April evening as she had spent so many others. She would slip away after dinner in Hall and take out the little Volkswagen she kept parked behind the outbuildings. Down the drive, and within a few minutes she would be turning into Grange Road . Then a precious hour or two with Lydia , curled up on the sofa in the study, drinking sherry, listening to music, talking about their respective days.
    She would tell Lydia the latest Muriel anecdote— Lydia would laugh and they would spend a delicious few minutes inventing mythical punishments for the poor girl. Daphne smiled at the thought of Muriel chained to a windy crag, awaiting the arrival of a fire-breathing dragon. A lot of good her busty bossiness would do her then.
    Lydia would read Daphne the poem she’d been working on that day and they would discuss it, tweaking it here and there until Lydia pronounced herself satisfied. Although Daphne’s field was history, she had a good ear, and Lydia often said that the mere act of reading a poem aloud let her see what it needed.
    Their companionship had been easy, undemanding, yet more satisfying than any Daphne had ever known.
    She turned away from the window and straightened her skirt. Enough was enough. Too much nostalgia quickly became a maudlin wallow, and she had business to attend to. A small framed mirror on her bookcase allowed her to pat her hair into place and adjust the collar of the white silk blouse she wore with her suit. She supposed she had better put on the tailored navy coat, the better to intimidate Baines.
    How could she possibly have imagined, in those long-ago Cambridge days, when they had defied anything and everything just for the sake of it, that she would become the very thing railed against?

    Frowning, Kincaid sidestepped the group of giggling teenagers who had nearly cannoned into him. Hampstead High Street seemed exceptionally busy for a Thursday evening, and as he walked downhill from the Underground station, he negotiated the crowded pavement with less than his usual good humor.
    He’d stalled at the office, finishing paperwork that could have been put off till tomorrow, hoping for a word with Gemma, only to discover she’d left for the day without telling him.
    Now, as he made his way home in the twilight, he felt both exasperated and unsettled. Accustomed as he was to making professional decisions with ease, he found himself at a loss when it came to dealing with the polite distance Gemma had put between them. Was she waiting for an apology? he wondered as he turned into Carlingford Road . But why should he apologize when he’d done nothing deserving of censure?
    Entering his building, he climbed the stairs without bothering to switch on the lights, relying on the faint illumination from the window in the upstairs landing. In the dim silence of the stairwell, he heard the pounding of his heart, and the small voice asking him if he were sure Gemma had no cause to be upset. What did he feel about Vic, seeing her again after all these years?
    The question hung unanswered as he let himself into his flat. At the sound of the door opening Sid looked up from his position on the sofa, stretched, blinked, and promptly went back to sleep.
    ”So you’re not thrilled to see me, either,” Kincaid said, giving the inert cat a scratch behind the ears. He went on through the sitting room and out the French doors to the balcony. The