Winifred had spent most of the day in her rooms, ill with a headache and insisting she’d never recover from last night’s ill-advised romp through the nether regions of tenderloin Budapest, an unfortunate evening capped off with the brutal assault on the gadfly journalist. “I’ll lie in bed with chocolate and cherries and a cold compress on my head.” She winked at me. “This is all your fault, Edna dear.” But she smiled. “At my age I should only be in the street with a placard for suffrage…in the company of hundreds of other women. That’s dangerous enough.” She jokingly pointed a finger at me. “You will always be a woman who steps lively into dangerous territory, Edna.” “Thank God,” I’d countered. “I hope you never regret those words.” So I sat alone and grieved and considered…and thought of Harold…and of Cassandra. But my thoughts kept drifting back to Jonathan Wolf.
