The invitation arrived four days after the dinner, handwritten on ivory card stock in a slanting, deliberate script. The paper was thick and the envelope was sealed with something that was not quite wax — a formal adhesive embossed with a small, plain E. Aria held it at the kitchen counter and read it twice before setting it down and going about her morning.
Evelyn Blackwood requested the pleasure of her company for afternoon tea. A date — the following Thursday. A time — two o'clock. A private residential address in the older part of the city, where the buildings had histories their current owners only partially owned. No mention of Lucien. No explanation of the purpose. The formality of the gesture was elaborate enough to be a kind of performance in itself, and Aria was not sure whether
