Bright and early the next morning, Emily walked six blocks to Warwick Way and down another three to the Warwick Hotel, the only stopover she’d mentioned the other day that definitely got a rise out of Harriet. People were bustling around as she passed the tiny shops and the Sainsbury’s market; the Mini Coopers were parked like toys down alleyways, and the sky was pearl and a faded blue. There were no insects or aromas suggesting anything growing wild. There was not even a hint of heat in the air. No screens in the open windows or fans or air conditioners as a matter of course.
At the corner, she passed by the Marquis of Westminster Café with its red-and-white striped awnings and lacquered billboards heralding “Homemade Beef Wellington and all Manner of Traditional English Food.” As usual,
