Sofia turned out to be a tiny maid with ivory-colored skin and slightly bulging eyes that gave her a permanently nervous look. She padded silently down the hallway on sensible shoes, giving Jane the impression that she was following a ghost. The girl came briefly to life when she showed Jane her suite: the bathroom with its heated tile floor, the walk-in closets with gentle track lighting, the staff call button—and, of course, the ubiquitous keypad that controlled the privacy lock. Jane worried a little about having so many important things in one place that she could potentially blow up, but the worry was brief: she was too tired to so much as power a lightbulb, and tomorrow would just have to work itself out.

Jane dropped her bag on an overstuffed velvet chair and took in her new pad. The wallpaper was the same rich ivory as the living room had been, and the deep chocolate-brown of the wooden floor glowed darkly in contrast. The effect, however, was spoiled by a multitude of Oriental throw-rugs, most of which favored the red-and-gold theme of the canopy bed. The bed itself was a work of art, although Jane usually preferred her art a little less suffocating. Carved animals, flowers, and mythical creatures adorned each of the four posts, which rose nearly to the molded ceiling. Heavy brocaded curtains hung around the bed, matching the red and gold of the Pratesi duvet. The room felt as though it came from a different era; it reminded her of a medieval birthing room she’d once seen in an illuminated manuscript.

Everything will look better in the morning, she reassured herself. The sun would stream in through the east-facing windows and make the highlights in the dark wood glow. She might even be able to catch a glimpse of Central Park from here, an almost suitable replacement for her familiar corner of Notre Dame. She would find the kitchen, sip an espresso, and try her first authentic New York bagel. Malcolm would read the paper . . . preferably the real estate section. And, in a perfect world, he would find the perfect apartment listing—a converted loft somewhere downtown with bone-colored hardwood floors and keys that actually turned—and they would spend a delightful afternoon poking their heads into California closets and testing water pressure.

She stuffed her tired limbs awkwardly under the duvet. As soon as her head hit the feather pillows, she felt the last of the day’s tension begin to melt out of her muscles, and then she felt nothing at all.

Jane awoke with a start several hours later, unsure what had jolted her from her sleep. The memory of voices hung heavy in the air, as though she’d just been talking to someone. But she’d been so deeply asleep that she doubted she’d been dreaming. Blinking in the unfamiliar darkness that pressed in on her from all sides, Jane fumbled on the wall for the light switch, but found only heavy, textured wallpaper. Of course. Nothing so practical as a switch on the wall for people who decorate like it’s 1803. Sitting up, she reached out and flicked on the Tiffany-glass bedside lamp. Dusky light spread through the room, and Jane groaned.

The first thing she noticed was that Malcolm’s side of the bed was empty and unrumpled. The second thing was the disturbance that had woken her up: a soft babble of voices somewhere in this maze of the house. Was the party still going on? She felt as if she had been sleeping for hours, but it was still dark outside. Her internal clock felt just as uprooted as the rest of her; it could just as easily have been noon as midnight.

She held still, listening intently. It quickly became clear that the voices weren’t normal party chatter. Their rise and fall was clear and rhythmic, one unified chorus rather than the random white noise of separate conversations. It sort of sounds like . . . chanting?

A chill ran down Jane’s spine, her body wide-awake now. She slipped out of bed, her feet sinking into the thick Oriental rugs scattered between her and the door. The hallway was pitch-black, and she didn’t even know where to begin to look for a light. She left her bedroom door open so the dim lamplight would spill out into the hallway. She tiptoed cautiously, running her fingers along the thick fabric wallpaper to help guide her. See Jane. See Jane walk. See Jane walk into an $18,000 knickknack from the fifteenth century.

The noise seemed softer now—someone had probably put on a CD too loudly—and she was tempted to grope her way back to her cozy featherbed and lay her head on those wonderfully fluffy pillows. She knew that if she just went back in, closed her door, turned off the light, and burrowed under the covers, her cold toes buried deep in the still-warm sheets, she would fall back asleep instantly . . .

Just as her body was poised to turn back, the chorus of voices swelled again, coming from the right, away from the parlor where the party had been however many hours ago. Huh. She felt her limbs shivering nervously, and she carefully spun herself in the direction of the noise, like the pointer on a Ouija board. She started forward purposefully, and promptly crashed into something warm and solid.

“Jane?”

A scream died in her throat. “Malcolm!”

Note to Self No. 2, she thought wryly, remembering her scare in the bathtub back in Paris. From now on, that terrifying thing in the dark is pretty much guaranteed to be Malcolm. As happy as she was to have someone to share her life with, it was apparently going to take some getting used to.

Holding a finger to his lips, Malcolm led her back to their bedroom and shut the door. “Out for a midnight snack?”

“It’s that early?” Jane peered down at her watch on the Louis XII end table, wondering why she hadn’t just thought of that in the first place.

“Well, it’s nearly one now.” Malcolm shrugged off his sweater. He threw it over the chair carelessly and ran a hand through his hair tiredly. “The party just broke up. You were a hit, by the way.”

“I thought I heard . . . chanting or something.” As soon as the word “chanting” left her tongue, Jane blushed. It sounded so foolish. The notion of über-wealthy Upper East Side socialites engaging in a little late-night chanting was even less likely than the idea of Lynne buying a cocktail dress at Wal-Mart.

Malcolm pulled back the covers on his side of the bed, his lovely dark-gold waves of hair gleaming in the lamplight. “Sometimes the wind whistles through the attic. When I was younger, I used to be convinced a ghost lived up there.”

Jane shook her head. “See, this is why I like modern architecture. The houses are too new to have ghosts.”

He sat down on the bed and held out his arms to her. “Come to bed, darling. You’ve had a hard week followed by a very long day. I promise that tomorrow everything will be better.”

Jane fell willingly into his warm arms, and his soft lips began to trace the line of her collarbone. “Things are looking up already,” she whispered, feeling him stir against her. He looked up at her long enough to smile, then disappeared under the red-and-gold duvet, kissing his way down her body until he reached the most advantageous position from which to dissolve her stress with his mouth. Feeling some energy return to her under his attentive tongue, she pushed gently at his shoulder, signaling him to turn so that she could reciprocate.

Lynne would be so disappointed, she thought idly a little while later, once his slowed breathing indicated that he was asleep beside her. No chance of grandkids tonight.