Triptych by M.S. Spencer

Sybil dropped a pebble and listened to its clicks and clacks as it hit every crag and spur on the way down to the water. It took a long time, for she stood very high above the river. She waited, hand to ear, to catch the tinny, far away splash, then gently tossed another pebble over the cliff.

“Sybil! Where are you?”

The girl turned swiftly, her simple white shift catching on the bark of an ancient elm tree. She pulled at it impatiently, tearing a bit of the delicate lace from the sleeve. “Here I am, Miranda! By the sun house!” She flew joyously up the bank.

A woman of about thirty-five, beautiful but stone-faced, waited on a flagstone patio wreathed in a thickly branched wisteria. To her right a large flower garden ambled down to a grassy verge. Behind her loomed a vast, Queen Anne-style mansion complete with tower. She crooked a finger at the girl. “Sybil, Honor needs you. She has to measure the hem.”

“I’m coming. It’s almost finished then?”

The woman began to smile, but her thin lips tightened as though she’d caught herself just in time. The glow of the afternoon sun caught a shaft of old grief seeping from the closed face. “Of course it is, Sybil. You need it for the tea dance tomorrow, don’t you? Honor has been working on it day and night.” A soft chestnut curl escaped from her severe French twist to touch the heart-shaped mouth. She raised a thin, ring-less hand and plucked the strands from her lips. “Do hurry in and help her.” As Sybil ran eagerly past her, she blinked a tear away.

Miranda gazed out over the cliff and down to the river. Directly below her, three small rock formations, known locally as the Three Sisters, reared out of the water like iceberg babies. When she was young she loved to observe the intercourse of river and rocks from high atop her hill. In the spring the Potomac River, heavy with silt, rushed headlong past, shooting plumes of whitecaps up and over them. In the summer the calm water filled with boats—canoes, punts, motorboats. A few months later, when the oaks and hickories turned the cliffs into a mass of scarlet and gold, the water would thin to a gentle trickle, and people forgot how strong the currents could surge, and grow unwary.

She shaded her eyes and looked north, where the steep canyons of Great Falls split the folded metagraywacke rock, the river slicing through it as easily as if it were paper. The Three Sisters marked the upper limit of the Potomac’s navigable waters. There, at a dangerous part of a dangerous river, Miranda and her sisters had helplessly watched many a hiker or kayaker flounder in the treacherous channels between Great Falls National Park and Teddy Roosevelt Island.

She no longer came out to watch the boaters, not after seeing Edward die when he crashed his Donzi 38 ZR into the Three Sisters. He and the woman he left her for. The nightmare still haunted her though. In the dream she waited, hidden in the summer house on the edge of the cliff, as the sleek, sexy, Italian-made speed boat slammed into the half-submerged rock in the middle of the river. Alone in the dark she relived the sight of the flames as they shot up almost high enough to singe her bare toes. She heard again Wanda’s Banshee shriek as she died in agony. Her husband never appeared in the dream. True to form, Edward had disintegrated in the maelstrom, leaving nothing behind to remember or bury, not even a belt buckle.

If one rowed out to the rocks, one could see dark splotches on the surface. Miranda never told anyone but she believed Edward’s blood still stained the Sisters. He’d always joked they would someday exact revenge on him for his wicked ways. His family’s firm, Lane & Sons, LLC, had been the principle agent lobbying for a bridge across the Potomac at that point, a bridge which would have immured the Sisters in concrete. In the face of local outrage the idea lost its appeal, and Edward moved on to destroy other landmarks in the name of progress.

The Three Sisters. Miranda sat on an old wrought iron bench by the flower garden and gazed down at them. So many stories had settled on the three rocks that rise some ten feet above the water in the middle of the river, at a bend where the channel is particularly hazardous. Stories like the one about the three Catholic nuns. I never liked that version. Miranda had trouble finding the romance in a tale of nuns drowning. After all, they left no lovers on earth and when they died they got to go to heaven. Hardly a tragedy for them.

Another legend, Sybil’s favorite, came from the local Necostin Indian tribe. Maybe she associated it with their own father, the Great White Hunter. Foolish girl. She often asked Miranda to tell it on long summer evenings as they tended the fire pit on the patio.

“Come on, sister mine. Tell it again. You do it so beautifully.”

Miranda, as usual, would oblige. “Long ago, an Indian maiden fell in love with a white settler, but the chief, her father, refused to sanction their union. One night she made up her mind to defy him and swim across the river to meet her lover. As she neared the middle of the channel, her foot caught in one of the jagged rock fissures that rise from the bottom. Her two sisters swam out to save her, but a great storm blew up. The fierce wind gusted across the water, summoning a huge wave that roared down from the canyons. It pulled all three sisters under, where they drowned. But—”

“This is the best part,” Sybil always interrupted at this point.

“—but, the Great Spirit had mercy upon them and transformed them into the three rocky islets we know as the Three Sisters. There are some who claim that late at night, when the rumbling noises of the city wane, you can hear their lonely moans wafting across the still waters. Others believe that, to avenge their deaths, they will pull under and drown any man who tries to cross the river there.”

Three sad sisters, three lonely sisters. Just like us. Miranda rose from the bench, picked up one of Sybil’s pebbles, and threw it hard over the cliff. Moping wouldn’t help her move on. She’d been alone three years now. Edward Lane was gone, never to return. The boat accident that took his life and that of his lover should be the source of a little schadenfreude for Miranda—especially considering where it happened—but it still hurt too much. The shock of his loss overwhelmed the knowledge of his infidelity even after all this time. Dodie, their housekeeper, huffed that she’d never trusted him anyway, and Miranda’s lawyer frequently remarked that at least Edward hadn’t had a chance to abscond with her fortune. It made no difference. She still missed him so much it stung. She wiped another tear away, turned, and marched back to the house.

“Honor! Sybil! Where are you?”

“In the morning room, Miranda! Come see!” Sybil ran out into the hall and spun around. Her long, straight mahogany hair swirled around her small head like the rings of Saturn. Her deep blue eyes flashed, picking up and refracting the layers of royal blue chiffon floating around her. The dress Honor had made followed the slim lines and curves of the girl’s torso to her tiny waist, where the skirt billowed out in exuberant, diaphanous waves.

“It’s lovely, Sybil. You will be the belle of the…tea dance.”

The girl shrugged unattractively and stalked back into the other room. Miranda could hear her whining, “Honor, why must I go to the tea dance anyway? It’s going to be soooo dull. The only men will be the same old twits I went to Flint Hill with.”

The doorbell rang and Sybil’s shriek muffled Honor’s response. “Miranda, Miranda! It’s the florist!”

A man in a peaked cap stood at the front door holding a small white box. Sybil brushed past her sister and snatched the box from his hand. “Miss? Could you sign for this, please?”

But the girl couldn’t be bothered. She skipped down the hall, waving airily at Miranda, who sighed and signed.

“Oh, no! Oh…My…God. Miranda—look what Roger sent. I can’t believe it. It’s too horrible.”

Her sister, fearing the worst, followed Sybil as she tottered, box held open, toward the morning room. “What is it? Is the corsage wilted?”

“No, what made you think that?” Sybil cocked her head, puzzled. “It’s much worse. It’s a camellia! I mean, how could Roger have come up with something so banal?” She stressed the last syllable of “banal” with a martyred quiver and thrust the box at her oldest sister, who sat before an ancient sewing machine.

Honor gently picked up the corsage. The delicate, almost translucent, white flower lay nestled on a bed of maidenhair ferns. She closed her eyes. “Oh, Sybil, how lovely! It reminds me of Harry.”

“You mean your high school sweetheart?” Sybil flopped into a chair.

“Yes. Harry always picked…unusual flowers for my corsages. Once he gave me a whole nosegay of violets.” She sniffed. “Look, they added a little stephanotis for fragrance. Mmmm. Aren’t you lucky, Sybil!”

Sybil rolled her eyes. “Well, put it in the refrigerator for me, will you? I have to get out of this dress.”

Honor and Miranda watched the girl sashay gracefully out of the room. They didn’t need to speak. Miranda knew Honor’s mind sought refuge from Sybil’s youthful self-absorption in her memories of the men she had loved and lost. The pain of those losses had changed her. At only forty-six, strands of silver gleamed in the long braid of her once glorious auburn hair. The laugh lines around her mouth had disappeared, replaced by brittle furrows. Her translucent eyes, the color of a Chinese celadon bowl, glistened now with the sheen of tears forbidden to fall. Miranda sighed. “Do you think she’ll ever grow up?”

Honor smiled a tight little smile. “Probably not. Do we want her to?”

“No scene, no event, is dramatic enough for her. She’s her mother’s daughter, isn’t she?”

“She’s that all right, but I’ve often wondered where those blue eyes come from…”

Miranda glanced swiftly at her sister. “Mother didn’t run off until Sybil was five, Honor. I believe Grandmother had blue eyes.”

Honor chuckled. “It doesn’t matter—she’s our sister and we love her dearly. Most of the time.” She stared thoughtfully out the window. “Unless she can find the right man to keep her grounded, I don’t know what she’ll do with her life.”

Miranda laughed indulgently. “How true. With her gift for histrionics you’d think she’d be a great actress or artist. All she’s done so far is to publish that icky book of children’s poetry.”

Honor allowed herself another smile. “Yes. Too bad we’ve run out of relatives to buy it.”

Miranda rose. “I’ll see what Dodie’s making for dinner, shall I?”

Honor turned back to the sewing machine. “I’ll finish up the sash. Then I do want to get back to Chapter Four.”

“Of course. You’ve only killed off half the characters so far. You should get cracking.”

Honor bridled but subsided when she saw the twinkle in her sister’s eye. “Oh I know you disapprove of my books, but they sell well.”

“Yes, to angst-driven beatniks. Honor, why don’t you write something upbeat once in awhile, rather than these doom-and-gloom tales? You have a great talent—I’d just like to read something jolly for once.” Miranda skipped out of the room before her sister could remonstrate.

* * * *

The two women regarded the young man as he handed Sybil into his Cadillac. “She could do worse than Roger, you know.”

Honor nodded. “He’s personable. Well-mannered. Good head on his shoulders.”

“And we know he’s not after our money.”

Honor didn’t laugh. “That is comforting.”

Miranda sighed. “I know, I know. He’s not romantic enough for her. She wants something exotic.”

“Hot-blooded.”

“Preferably foreign.”

“Maybe she should advertise.”

“Hmmm.”

The squeal brought her fully awake. Miranda hadn’t slept a night through since Edward died but she could generally get a few hours in before the nightmare roused her. She rose and went to the window. The wisteria-roofed patio on which she’d stood the day before lay below. She could hear rustling and stifled giggles. I hope it’s not those nasty Oliphant twins. They broke a window last time. She picked up the baseball bat she kept by her bed and quietly left the room. The back door opened without a squeak. She stepped softly around a vine-swathed pillar, and stopped short.

So did Sybil and Roger. In fact, Roger would have dropped Sybil if she hadn’t had her legs wrapped tightly around his middle. Her skirt shrouded her face, leaving the naked lower half of her body in full view of her sister’s shocked face. Roger took one look at Miranda and made the mistake of shoving Sybil off. She landed on her bottom on the stone floor, leaving Roger with his pants around his ankles and his erect penis bobbing up and down, flushed red with blood and lust.

Miranda carefully put the baseball bat down and backed through the door, closing it softly. When she reached her room she let out the breath she’d been holding for the last two minutes. Do I laugh? Do I cry? Sybil’s old enough. I can’t tell her what to do. But…She sat on the bed, still seeing the two bodies melded together, and the abruptly relinquished long, hard cock sticking out, ready to do its job. Unwillingly she found herself concentrating on that cock and thinking how it would feel to have one ram its way inside her, pounding, tickling, rubbing, until her insides exploded. She shook her head. I can’t believe this—I’m thinking about sex with Sybil’s boyfriend.

She knew her carnal thoughts weren’t really directed at Roger, though, but at Edward and those long nights of wild, humid lovemaking. Edward could bring her to such heights of passion that she lost all sense of time and place. She closed her eyes, remembering. He would start by tasting the inside of her thighs. Then he would brush his tongue over her belly button, moving on to her nipples, leaving tiny love bites all over them. When he was satisfied with the state of her breasts he would turn her over and lick slowly from the back of her knees up to her buttocks. His lips raised goose bumps on the skin at the back of her thighs, causing a chain reaction that sent electric currents to every pore on her body. He would finish the preliminaries by sticking a coiled tongue up her ass. When he had brought her to the point where she teetered on the edge of total ecstasy, he’d reach a hand under her, flip her over and straddle her, his eight-inch penis nudging her mouth open.

At first Miranda hated sucking it, but once he’d taught her how to take the tip in her mouth and tickle the little gland under it with her tongue she became adept. He would squirm and pant and tell her how much he loved her while she slobbered over the thick shaft. Most of all she loved it when he arched his back, pushing his prick deeper down her throat, pressing and pressing until that split second of breathless tension before he let go.

They made love in bars, on trains, on the beach. He always had a new idea, one that would send hot shivers down her spine and wet both sets of lips in anticipation. It’s funny, though, I don’t think we ever made love the old-fashioned way. That was Edward. Dear, kinky, nasty, betraying Edward. His face rose before her and the warmth in her loins dissipated. She heard a tap on the door.

“Miranda? May I come in?”

“Yes, of course, Sybil.”

Sybil, slightly the worse for wear, slunk in and sat on the bed. Her hair had come out of the chignon and her corsage hung limply brown from her wrist. A round wet stain darkened the blue of her dress. She looked at her sister. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to lecture me?”

How to put this? “Sybil, you’re a grown woman. Somehow I doubt if this was your first time having sex. I hope I didn’t startle you.”

Sybil began to giggle. “Didn’t Roger look funny with his prick hanging out like that? What a dork.”

Though tempted, Miranda knew she shouldn’t encourage the girl, so she patted her shoulder and rose. “I don’t think making fun of your…er…date is appropriate. Go to bed, Sybil.”

“Alright.” The girl went to the door, but turned. “It was funny, though, wasn’t it?”

* * * *

“I swear, Honor, if she comes in this morning in that fretful mood I’ll swat her.”

Honor set her coffee cup down. “She’s bored, Miranda. Now that she’s graduated she needs something to occupy her.”

“Like what? She has no hobbies, no goals, no idea what she’s going to do with her life. She floated through Vassar like it was a finishing school. I’m beginning to think Papa may have spoiled her just a teensy bit.”

“Really?”

Miranda looked up quickly to see the smile sliding off Honor’s lips. “Well, so what do we do about it? I refuse to spend the entire summer listening to her long-winded sighs and vacuous complaints.”

The door opened, letting in a long-winded sigh. Sybil shuffled in, playing the part of languishing diva to perfection. Not for the first time Miranda wondered why her flair for the dramatic didn’t translate to the stage. Except for one lamentable appearance in their church’s production of Joseph and the Technicolor Dream Coat, Sybil shunned the theater. Too much competition?

“Hello, dear sisters.” Sybil stepped to the window. The bright morning sun lit her sullen features, lending a glow to her cheeks she probably wanted to avoid. “Another beautiful day.” A gentle sniff. “Again.”

“Coffee?” asked Honor brightly.

The girl slumped onto one of the green wicker chairs that graced the cheerful morning room and held out a limp hand for the cup.

“So what’s on your agenda today, Sybil?”

The girl stirred three teaspoons of sugar into her coffee as though it were her last meal. “Nothing. As usual.”

Miranda felt her gorge rise and tried to swallow it before she threw up. “For heaven’s sake, Sybil. You’re a college graduate. Do something with it.”

“Like what? How do I apply a major in women’s studies to anything? You’re the ones who let me take all those courses in performance art, Community Activism and gay film history. What am I supposed to do with them?”

It was Honor’s turn to be irritated. “I don’t know, Sybil. Why don’t you picket the National Gallery film program, demanding they show more pornographic movies made by homeless activists?”

Sybil ignored her. “What I really want,” she murmured, staring at the ceiling, “is a man.” This comment did not succeed in impressing either of her sisters. She gave them a sly glance. “Not just any man, mind you. An aristocrat.” Her voice flowed dreamily on. “A Frenchman, I think. One with medals and a romantic accent. Someone who will sweep me off my feet and take me away to his chateau on the Loire.” Silence reigned. It seemed for the best.

Miranda rose. “Well, I’ve got shopping and the bills to pay today. I’ll be too busy to entertain you.”

Sybil made a half-hearted attempt at righteous indignation. “You certainly don’t have to. Maybe I’ll go into the city and wander around.”

“I’ve an idea. You could stand on the street corner with a sandwich board that says, “I want a man.” The other two stared at Honor, who stared back, imperturbable. “What?”

To ease the tension, Miranda said the first thing that came to mind. “Or you could advertise for one on Craig’s List.”

The shopping took longer than Miranda expected and she had barely finished the household bills when Dodie called her for dinner. She and Honor sat down in the long, formal dining room, prepared to wait for Sybil’s usual stately, yet world weary, entrance. Instead, their sister threw open the door, skipped into the room, and bestowed a glorious smile on her startled audience.

“Guess what?”

Oh dear. “You seem excited, Sybil.”

“I am! I took your advice, Miranda.”

Please don’t let it be something I said as a joke. “What advice?”

“This morning. You suggested I advertise on Craig’s List for a man.”

Gulp. “And…?”

“Well, sillies. I did. And guess what? I got a response!”

Dodie came in with a tray. “We’re having hot and sour soup. I made it less spicy this time—that last batch gave you all indigestion.” The prospect of another round of gastrointestinal problems, from whatever source, gave the two sisters pause. In the silence Miranda thought she heard a burp, quickly smothered.

“Sybil, what have you done?”

The girl seemed unprepared for Miranda’s disapproving tone. “I told you. I put a notice on Craig’s List—in the personals section.”

“You what?”

“It wasn’t like that. You act as though I solicited kinky sex or something. They don’t allow that kind of stuff anymore.”

Miranda set aside the question of how she knew that in favor of a quick resolution. “What did you ask for, exactly?”

“I said we were looking for a French aristocrat. I said we had a room to rent and wanted to pocket a little extra cash in return for lessons in French language and culture. Hence the stipulation that he be an aristocrat. I think I made it quite clear the request came from a group. Wasn’t it terribly sensible of me?”

“I see.” Honor swallowed a spoonful of soup and grimaced. After a hefty slug of water she managed, “And when this…person arrives, naturally you’ll fall in love with each other.”

Sybil’s benign smile lingered on the image. “Naturally.”

“Because that’s the way it happens in books.”

“Well…in some books. Not in yours of course, Honor. Yours always have sad endings. That’s why I don’t read them.” Oblivious to the insensitivity of this remark, Sybil delved into her bowl with gusto. As she poured more hot sauce into it, the others stared at her as though she were some hitherto unrecorded species.

Finally Miranda girded her loins for the inevitable. “I take it you received a reply?”

“Yes! How cool is that! Five minutes ago. It seems legitimate, but I’m sure you’ll want to check him out, Miranda.”

“First intelligent thing she’s said in twenty-four hours,” murmured Honor.

“Show it to me.” Sybil handed her a printout. Miranda read, “Salutations, Mademoiselle Barbara.”

Sybil giggled. “See? I knew enough to give a false name.”

Miranda plowed on.

Miranda stared at the piece of paper.

“Well? What do you think?” Sybil couldn’t keep still. “This is sooo exciting! I can’t wait to meet him.”

The doorbell saved Miranda from inflicting a deflating reply. Dodie came into the dining room. “Mr. Heiliger is here.”

“Dieter? How wonderful. Show him in, Dodie.” Honor rose from the table, hands outstretched, to greet a gaunt man dressed in an old-fashioned tweed suit. He leaned forward, hunching his shoulders the way tall men do in a misguided attempt to put shorter people at ease. “Welcome home! How was your trip?”

“Long and tiring.” His berry blue eyes twinkled as he kissed Honor’s cheek, then Miranda’s. Sybil simpered and held her hand out. He shook it gravely. At that point he noticed the bowls on the table. “Oh dear, I apologize for intruding on your meal. I was in such a hurry to rush over and greet my three ladies I didn’t notice the time!” He spoke with a slight accent, which increased with his agitation.

“No, no,” cried Honor. “Please, join us. You can tell us all about your visit to Germany.”

Her enthusiasm surprised Miranda. Since their father died two years before she rarely exhibited any emotion besides fatalism. Perhaps Dieter reminds her of Papa.

The man inclined his head. Honor called, “Dodie, another place please!” and indicated the chair to her right. The housekeeper brought in a large platter.

“What is this, Dodie? It smells delicious, and so familiar!” Dieter’s eyes lit up as he gazed inquiringly at her.

“Roast rabbit in a vinegar sauce.”

“You mean Hasenpfeffer! I’d know that aroma anywhere. But where did you find the rabbit?”

Miranda put in, “You remember Hans Engeldorf—our gardener?”

“Certainly. He used to do a little trimming for me when he had time. We enjoyed chatting in our native tongue. How is he?”

“He retired last year and settled out near Leesburg. Last week he shot a brace of hare and brought them to us. Dodie’s been cleaning and marinating them since then.”

Dieter gave the cook a grateful wink. “What perfect timing I have. Thank you for allowing me to share this special dish with you.”

Dodie blushed and ladled a large portion of rabbit onto his plate, added crisp roast potatoes fragrant with thyme and a pile of green beans, shiny with butter. “They’re the French filet beans. We grew them ourselves,” she whispered.

When they were all served, Sybil leaned forward. “Well, Uncle Dieter, tell us about your trip.”

The old man put his fork down. “I visited my two brothers and their families and my old Aunt Ella.”

Sybil gawked. “You still have an aunt at your age? She must be doddering!”

Honor raised her eyebrows. “Uncle Dieter isn’t that old, Sybil.”

“Yes indeedy, I still have some life left in me.” He grinned. “Aunt Ella is only eighty-five.”

Sybil subsided but they heard her murmur, “Eighty-five. What’s the point?”

Dieter resumed. “She still lives in the family house in Kehl, east of Strasbourg. It’s stuffed to the rafters with family mementos and souvenirs. This trip she finally prevailed upon me to take a few things. I only hope they are of interest to my daughter Annaliese and her son, since I don’t want them.”

Miranda asked, “Why are you back so soon? We thought you were staying another month.”

Dieter ran a thin hand through his sandy gray hair. “Bad news I’m afraid. You remember my grandson Corey?”

All three women rolled their eyes. “What’s he done now?”

Dieter laughed at their expressions. “Just what you’d expect. He’s been expelled from Dartmouth.”

“Expelled!” Sybil sounded envious. “Ivy League schools never expel anyone—they think it makes them look bad.”

“Ah, but our Corey is special. He managed to irk not only his professors, but the Dean, the President, and most of the student body.”

Sybil chuckled indulgently. “Well, if anyone could, Corey’s the one. What did he do this time?”

“You won’t believe it. You know how clever he is at inventing things? He created this—what’s the fellow’s name—Rube something?”

“Rube Goldberg.”

“That’s it. Anyway, he built this mechanism that exploded inside the bell in the Baker Library tower and set off fireworks that rained down all over the Green. When the campus police hauled him to the Dean he calmly explained that since the tower was named after him he could do what he wanted with it.”

Honor laughed. “He has a point, Dieter. His last name is Baker.”

He nodded without humor. “Unfortunately for us, it’s not the same Baker. And he made matters worse by offering, not an apology, but a share in the patent rights for his new “machine!” Needless to say, the school did not accept his offer.”

“I bet Corey went all huffy then. He would,” chirped Sybil with relish. Miranda couldn’t tell whether Corey’s exploit or his comeuppance caused her more enjoyment.

Dieter shook his head. “The poor child is too brilliant for his own good. His mother gave up long ago trying to rein him in.”

“But what does this have to do with your early return?”

Dieter gave a wan smile. “Unfortunately, Annaliese has gone to Botswana on one of her animal buying excursions for the National Zoo and won’t be back for two months. I offered to take Corey in until she returns.”

Sybil jumped up. “No! Uncle Dieter! You can’t! I don’t want that boy next door all summer! He’s insufferable!”

“Mind your manners, Sybil!” Honor’s face showed her mortification. She turned to their guest. “I’m so sorry, Dieter. I’m afraid she doesn’t think before she speaks.”

“She’ll be a good match for Corey then. He arrives tomorrow.”

Sybil gazed around at their faces in shock. “Tomorrow? Oh dear. May I be excused, Miranda? I have some things to do in my room.”

Miranda nodded and the girl ran out.

Honor touched Dieter’s hand. “Your early return might be fortunate for us. Sybil’s gone and done something rather ill-advised.”

“Again?” Dieter’s Teutonic face remained impassive, but Dodie tittered.

Miranda glared at the cook. “We’ll take coffee now, Dodie.” She picked up the tale. “She’s decided she wants to meet a dashing French aristocrat.”

“That sounds reasonable. As long as he has his own fortune.” This time even Honor giggled.

Miranda threw her a severe look. Honor seemed to be in a girlish mood this evening. Could the rabbit have some sort of aphrodisiac properties? “I facetiously suggested she advertise on Craig’s List and the ignorant girl did so.”

“And I take it a reply came?”

“Yes. Can you believe it?”

Dieter threw back his head and roared. Honor joined in. When he’d caught his breath he puffed, “Oh my, dear Miranda, can’t you? This is the modern era. Everything is done online. When they come up with a way to make love in cyberspace even that most precious activity will be described in pixels rather than kisses.”

Miranda waited until the mirth died down. “Anyway. This fellow—he calls himself a chevalier—proposes to come stay with us a week from today. He says he has business in Washington and is willing to give Sybil…er…French lessons.”

Her listeners attempted without success to take this seriously. From the kitchen they could hear Dodie’s muffled snickers. Honor took over. “Miranda is right—we could pretend he didn’t exist but Sybil…well, we all know Sybil. We have to take action one way or the other.”

Dieter took a sip of coffee. “If we must. What do we know about this man?”

“Only what Sybil has told us. His name is—” Miranda checked her notepad, “—the Chevalier du Bon Arnaque. He claims to have a chateau in Alsace.”

“Alsace! Strasbourg is just across the Rhine from Kehl. I wonder…”

“Perhaps your family has heard of the Arnaques?”

“It’s not a familiar name. I will check though.”

“He doesn’t state what his business in the District is. In fact, he doesn’t give any other information.”

“Is there a return address?”

“No, only a reply code to Craig’s List.”

“Well, I suggest you reply and ask for more particulars.”

The two women looked at each other, too embarrassed to admit neither had thought of that. “Of course,” replied Miranda stiffly, “it goes without saying.”

Dieter rose. “Please thank Dodie for the Hasenpfeffer. I must go and prepare for the arrival of Tornado Boy.” He picked up his hat, but turned when he reached the door. “Do let me know what you find out about ‘le Chevalier.’ I shall inquire about the surname, but in the meantime if there’s anything else I can do let me know. And you must promise me when Corey arrives you’ll lend some female support.”

Honor kissed him. Miranda inclined her head. “Not to worry, Uncle Dieter.”

* * * *

Hmmm. Miranda pushed her chair away from the computer. The shadows had grown long in her little study. Facing west, it looked out on the driveway, which suited Miranda well. Distractions annoyed her when she worked, unlike Honor, who loved to pause and gaze out over the spires of Georgetown and the eastern cliffs of the Potomac from her tower room.

She hadn’t found anything about “Arnaques” in Alsace or indeed anywhere in France, but during her research a reference to a distinguished Alsatian French family called Saint-Vérité caught her eye. Maybe due to Corey’s recent adventures, the mention of the destruction of a laboratory intrigued her. According to Wikipedia, the patriarch, a Laurent de Saint-Vérité, came from a line of famous inventors. Rumors circulated after the war that he’d been working on something significant when he and his family escaped just before the Nazis arrived. Its purpose, whether as a weapon or for winemaking, no one ever found out, for the secret went with Laurent to his grave. The garrison quartered at their estate outside of Strasbourg ransacked the house and burned the laboratory before withdrawing. Valuable paintings and priceless prototypes were lost.

How awful to lose a potentially useful invention to a barbarian invasion! On the other hand, she mused, Saint-Vérité may have been working on a new weapon and God used the nearest instrument at hand to demolish it. Ironic that the instrument should be a Nazi looter.

Honor opened the door. “Did you find anything?”

“No. This fellow must be a fake.”

“Not a big surprise, no?”

Miranda frowned. “Who’s going to tell Sybil her little play is off?”

Honor shrugged, a gesture that drew unwelcome attention to her thin frame. In her tired face what would otherwise have been a perfect nose became narrow and sharp. Her dark lashes concealed her soft green eyes and she pulled in her cheeks in a gesture of resignation. “I doubt she cares one way or the other. Her emotions flit about like swallowtails in the last days of summer.”

“Who, me?” Sybil stood in the door. She looked at her sisters, her eyes damp with tears. “Is that what you both think of me? That I’m shallow and thoughtless?”

“No, no, dear Sybil.” Miranda put a tentative hand on Sybil’s arm but the girl shook it off. “We just want you to be happy and safe. Sybil, I can’t find anything out about this Chevalier du Bon Arnaque. It’s possible he’s a complete fraud.”

“That’s where you’re wrong! I just had an email from him. He attached his biography and references. As…as though they were necessary!” She flung the pages on the desk and ran out of the room.

Honor picked them up and looked them over. Silently she handed them to her sister.

Miranda read a strikingly impressive resume. The good chevalier grew up in Strasbourg, heir to an estate a few kilometers outside the city. He attended the Sorbonne before receiving his Masters degree at the London School of Economics. He was currently employed by the European Parliament as a consultant in international law. It provided a birth date that put his age at 38—definitely too old for Sybil—and gave his marital status as single. He preferred dogs and horses to gerbils and iguanas and loved to dance.

“Aside from the fact that this reads more like an e-Harmony application than a curriculum vitae, he does sound legitimate, don’t you think, Miranda?”

Her sister wasn’t ready to accede. “We still don’t have independent confirmation that he is who he says he is. Nor any idea of what his business is in Washington.”

“True.” Honor went to the bay window and looked toward a large house barely visible through the woods. When she turned an indefinable gleam brightened her normally grave expression. Miranda could see a light coming from the tower room of the house. That’s Dieter’s study. She must be glad he’s home. It’s almost as though Papa were here. “But Miranda, we’re agreed that Sybil has been impossible to live with these last few weeks. Now that Dieter’s home we have a chaperone of sorts. Why not let the man come, if it makes her happy?”

Miranda remained unmoved, but Honor’s words gave her an idea. “Alright, I’ll think about it. Excuse me, dear—I promised to take some of those green beans over to Dieter.”

“Oh, I’ll take them.” Did Honor actually sound cheerful?

“Thanks, but I want to have a word with Dieter anyway.”

Honor headed to the stairs. “Well, I need to finish off Chapter Four anyway. Send him my regards.”

Miranda smiled at her sister’s back. “I surely will, Honor.”

* * * *

“But, Uncle Dieter, it’s a perfect plan!”

The older man sipped his sherry and peered over his reading glasses at his visitor. She reflected that for a sixty-year-old he certainly appeared in prime condition. His wavy gray hair curled becomingly around his ears—a little too long perhaps, but sweet. His cerulean eyes twinkled, while his nose stipulated his Germanic heritage even before he opened his mouth. “Miranda, I’m surprised at you! I thought you were the sensible one in the family. This is a daft proposition. Besides, we’re only a stone’s throw away now.”

“But Uncle, who knows what this man is like! He could be dangerous. He could be a swindler, or a burglar…or… Anyway, if we put him up we’ll need a male chaperone on the premises. You’re much too far away to do anything if he attacks us.”

“My, my, you remind me of Sybil—playing the weak, defenseless female card. I’ve seen you wield that baseball bat, Miranda. No, you have an ulterior motive for asking me to stay in your house. What is it?” His keen glance belied his cheerful expression.

“Honestly? I don’t trust Sybil. She needs a father figure on site. She has a very strong libido—” Miranda mentally blocked the picture of naked legs and a hard prick lusting for a warm vagina— “and I have no doubt she’ll jump into this man’s bed at the first hint of interest on his part.”

“I see. But what about Corey? I can’t leave him alone here anymore than you would leave Sybil alone, albeit for different reasons.” He grinned.

Miranda stood up. “I’d forgotten about Corey.” She rubbed her nose to give her time to think, a habit she’d been trying to break since adolescence.

Dieter waited. He knew what Miranda would suggest, but thought it wise to let her bring it up. “Well…I suppose Corey could stay with us as well.”

The old man chuckled. “I see—a ménage à trois times two. We might be raided!”

“For heavens’ sake, Uncle Dieter, what an absurd thing to say! None of us has any designs on any other, so it would be a perfectly platonic ménage….I mean household.”

Dieter rose. “I’ll think about it. Corey arrives tomorrow. He will have to agree as well. And you must convince both your sisters. I’m not sure how Honor will react to your scheme.”

Miranda dismissed the idea that Honor might not go along with any plan she put to her. “I’ll take it up with them tonight. Separately.”

“You do that. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Miranda kissed his cheek. “It’s so nice to have you back. You’ve always been such a good friend to our family.”

Dieter’s face closed down. “I have tried to be. I miss your father too, you know. You are all very dear to me.”

“Until tomorrow then.”