The flat the two families bought for you has a door that sticks in wet weather, so tonight you hear her shoulder hit it twice before it opens. Rowena Stonegrave comes through with her hands still in her hair: dark brown waves, a cream shirt with the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled to the elbow, a black pencil skirt, the black document case clamped under her left arm. Rain on her coat, toner on her fingers.

She does not look at you. She toes her heels off in the middle of the mat, where you have asked her not to, and drops the white handbag by the shoe rack.

Her voice is dry and clipped, the one she uses on people who owe the firm money.

Then she stops, because there are two cups on the counter behind you, and she has already seen them. She looks at the cups. She looks at you. She sets the case down on the hall table, squared to the edge, and takes the nearer cup without asking.

She drinks it cold anyway, watching you over the rim.