Chapter 3

Mr. Pike stirred. "For good?"Voss spread his hands. "Let us be honest. The building is old. The town requires modern accommodation. A new hotel, perhaps, with a suite of rooms attached. Larger, more fashionable, more profitable. I have plans which—""You have plans already?" Phoebe asked quietly.A flicker passed over his face. "I am a man accustomed to preparation.""And I," said Phoebe, "am a woman accustomed to recognizing it."Sir Lionel frowned. "Miss Hartwell..."She lowered her eyes, but not in apology.The meeting ended with a decision to postpone Lady Enderby's ball and close the ballroom until Mr. Meer had inspected it. The card room and concert chamber might remain open for the present, provided no crowd gathered.By 4:00, the news had spread through Ashcombe Wells with such speed that Phoebe suspected it had put on boots. At the milliner's, Mrs. Bell declared the season ruined. At the library, Captain Fane said he had always mistrusted painted ceilings. At the pump room, Lady Enderby announced that disappointment had affected her nerves and demanded a private bench.Phoebe spent the afternoon answering questions, calming tempers, rearranging engagements, and pretending that her own heart was not beating faster than it ought. Only when dusk fell and the servants had gone did she return to the ballroom alone.The garlands hung half-finished along one wall. The chandeliers were unlit. The painted ceiling, dim in the fading light, seemed to float above her like a pale sky before rain.She remembered her first assembly here at seventeen, when her mother had still been alive and had fastened a pearl comb into her hair. She remembered her uncle teaching her how to balance accounts at the little desk near the entrance. She remembered winter concerts, summer breakfasts, charity bazaars, election dinners, and once, during a snowstorm, half the town gathered here overnight because the roads were impassable.A building could hold memory, she thought—not sentiment alone: memory, labor, livelihood, hope.A footstep sounded in the entrance. Phoebe turned.A gentleman stood in the doorway: tall and spare, his dark coat travel-dusted, his hat beneath one arm. His hair was brown, his features thoughtful rather than handsome at first glance, and his eyes had the steady gray of a winter morning."Miss Hartwell?" he asked."Yes."He bowed. "Jonathan Meer. Sir Lionel sent word that I should come directly upon arrival."Phoebe curtsied. He looked past her to the ceiling."I see," he said.It was a simple remark, but something in the way he said it made her uneasy. Not alarmed, only aware that he had seen more in one glance than most of the committee had seen in an hour."You have traveled today, Mr. Meer. Surely the inspection may wait until morning.""Cracks seldom improve overnight.""No," Phoebe said. "They do not."He walked into the room, his gaze moving from the ceiling to the cornice, from the cornice to the walls, from the walls to the gallery supports. He did not rush; he did not perform concern for effect. He observed.Phoebe watched him with guarded interest.After several minutes, he said, "Has there been water above?"

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