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chest.

“Dearest Ellie,” the sisters rose from the drawing room sofa as one. “Oh, how dreadfully frail and drawn you look.”
    My spirits lifted. The potpourri of fading summer wafted in through the open windows. What pleasure to be fussed over! Taking one of my arms apiece, they lowered me onto the ivory brocade sofa as though I were eminently rare and imminently breakable. I had forgotten how fond I was of them. Primrose with her silvery curls, crumpled flower face, and limpid blue eyes; Hyacinth, taller and sallow, with her black cone of hair and hooded eyes. Surely the likeliest reason for their presence, and for the message relayed through Dorcas, was that they wished to discuss an urgent case with me. Not long ago I had assisted Flowers Detection when a local women’s group had taken the law into their white-gloved hands and made murder a community project. Another reason I was against organizations. Who knew what the Mangé Society got up to in its spare time? As my Uncle Maurice is wont to say, “Causes breed fanatics.”
    â€œSweet child, I trust you did not come downstairs by yourself.” Primrose arranged a pillow behind my head before fetching the familiar smelling salts bottle from her handbag.
    The primly tailored effect of her wool suit was canceled out by its Donald Duck buttons, which went very nicely, however, with her oversized Mickey Mouse watch. As for the satin bows tucked among her curls, they seemed a bit muchuntil one took a good look at her sister. Hyacinth was attired in harem trousers and a baggy-sleeved scarlet blouse. Brass birdcage earrings hung against her neck. Whenever she moved, the tiny canaries inside warbled.
    Involuntarily my eyes veered to the portrait of Abigail, Uncle Merlin’s mother, which hangs in pride of place above our mantel. Her plain, forthright face and kind eyes would have made the room home even had it not contained a stick of furniture. Did I detect a suggestion of a wink as she smiled down at me now?
    â€œReally, you mustn’t fuss over me,” I scolded the sisters. They sat down on either side of me, each clasping one of my hands. “Ben is preparing to go to the restaurant but will pop in to say hello before leaving. He wouldn’t miss seeing you for the world. And Dorcas promised to bring in coffee after we’ve had time for a chat.”
    â€œBen continues to attend his place of business?” Hyacinth’s brow creased. “One would think he could find someone to take over so as to allow him to be with you during these trying days.”
    â€œMen!” I spread my hands.
    Hyacinth repeated the epithet—getting even more mileage out of it. “I am proud to say our paternal parent never indulged in employment during those times when our mother was expecting.”
    â€œHe never did so when she was not.” Primrose set the smelling salts down. “The demands made by his club were extremely onerous, and when we were young, it was not the accepted practice for either parent to work unless vulgarly pressed.” She clasped my hand. “I believe your father maintains some of those old values.”
    â€œCertainly. He resides still in a grass hut on the tropical island of Kiwikki, living on mulled coconut milk and organizing the local beauty pageant—Miss Blue Lagoon.”
    Primrose murmured, “Tut-tut,” but I noticed a gleam in her pansy eyes. Did she harbour a heart-shaped fantasy of my father—decked out as a combination of Errol Flynn and Tarzan—swinging in through the open window on a rope some day when she might happen to be visiting?
    â€œRemember, Hyacinth, when Father moved the family into a tent on the lawn for a fortnight in order that we learnhow the masses live? Oh, the chagrin of the servants at fetching meals back and forth!”
    â€œVery true.” Hyacinth inclined her head and the canaries in the birdcage earrings began to trill. “But