THIRTY-FOUR
We were off before daylight on the morning of the twenty-seventh, though my family did not intend to go back until after the New Year. I’d wound up not sleeping at all, so Justinian camped in the Holmwood garage, and we took one of their cars, instead, with Chessie driving. We’d picked up Quincey, as well, who’d been wide awake in the smoking room at five o’clock, with a couple of dozen cigarette butts for company. He insisted on throwing a few things together and joining us, which suited me fine, if we couldn’t have Uncle Art. Presumably, a mission to Amsterdam appealed more than camping out with his mother. At least he was doing something. I commissioned eggs, toast, and coffee from Mrs Abernathy, and we ate in relative silence.
Geordie was recovered. Not entirely—he didn’t
