* * * *
Portia’s house was like an armed camp. She sat in stony silence, while, contrary to our usual care around our sister, Jeff swore in six languages and Gregor paced the room, every once in a while his ire escaping him in a torrent of Czech. Ludo emerged from the kitchen with a tray bearing a china teapot and six cups, setting it down on the coffee table.
“What’s going on?”
“Portia told Ben Monroe not to go.”
“Jefferson, I simply told him to hold off for a couple of days. It was going to take him a week as it was. What’s the fuss?”
“Yes, what is the fuss?” I asked. Portia had been in this business, and she was as competent as any of us in dealing with matters the normal population would be panicked by.
“Oh, no, don’t you start, Bryan.” Jeff snapped.
I raised an eyebrow, and he
