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"Once," Wells says. "In thirty-one moves."

"Only once?" My mother glances at me with mild disapproval, as though I've let the family down. Then she turns back to Wells.

"Your grandfather's chess set is in the library. It's very old, and he never let anyone touch it. I think he'd want you to be the one who does. Would you like to see it later?"

Wells nods slowly. I watch something settle in his face, the look he gets when a problem has finally started to make sense.

Miles isn't interested in chess. He has spotted Sebastian at the edge of the lawn, and within five minutes he has established that his uncle owns a football, that the pear tree can serve as one goalpost and a garden urn as the other, and that Sebastian will be goalie. Sebastian is wearing a very good suit. By the time Miles scores his third goal, it has grass stains on both knees.

Jane settles into a chair beside Blaire with a glass of lemonade and one hand resting on her stomach. She doesn't fuss over the boys or ask them anything about the family. She asks Miles about his robot and listens to all nine minutes of the answer. When Wells trips on the terrace steps and scrapes his palm, she checks it with brisk, practiced hands, pronounces it fine, and tells him the pear tree is off limits for climbing, which is plainly the first rule anyone has given him in this house, and he seems relieved to have one.

At one point, Sebastian comes off the lawn, breathless, and stands beside me while Miles practices kicking the ball into the urn. He watches the two of them for a long time without speaking.

"It's like looking at old photographs of us," he says quietly.

"Wells has your face when he's thinking. Miles has it when he's winning."

"I know," I tell him.

He shakes his head slowly, and his voice isn't quite steady.

"I'm glad they're here, Ross."

Late in the afternoon, Richard Voss arrives with a leather portfolio under his arm. He's brought Arthur's letter of instruction for my signature, and he stops at the edge of the terrace when he sees the boys on the lawn. His face softens, but his training takes over before his manners can.

"So these are the young gentlemen of the senior branch," he says warmly.

"It's an honor to meet the next generation of the family."

Wells looks up from the chessboard my mother has already had brought outside. Miles stops mid-kick. Both of them look at Richard, then at me, with the uncertainty of children who've just heard grown-ups describe them in words they don't understand.

"Richard," I say. I keep my voice pleasant, but I don't leave any room in it.

"They're Wells and Miles. They're seven, and they're here to meet their grandmother and learn how to lose to their uncle at football. That's all they are today."

Richard understands immediately. He inclines his head.

"Of course. Forgive me." He holds out the portfolio.

"The letter, whenever you're ready."

"Leave it in the study," I tell him.

"I'll sign it tonight."

Once, I would have followed him into that study and closed the door. The week my father died, I let duty walk me out of every room that mattered, including the one Blaire was standing in. Today, I stay on the terrace.

When I turn back, Blaire is watching me. She has a glass of lemonade in her hand that she's forgotten she's holding, and her expression is one I've never seen on her before. It isn't relief, and it isn't quite trust yet. It looks more like recognition, as though she has just watched me make a choice she didn't think I was capable of making.

As the light starts to go gold over the garden and Jane gathers the boys to wash up for dinner, my mother touches my arm.

"Ross," she says.

"Would you mind if I had a few minutes alone with Blaire?"

Chapter Forty-One

Blaire