Daphne sat quietly on the wind worn veranda that spilled out around the sprawling cottage where she had spent the last few days. She sipped slowly at the hot cup of rose petal tea that Ted had carried out for her. He had been very kind while they had been alone here ... so moose. He had left her pretty much to herself except for meals which he prepared noisily, and mostly with knives, in the large, apparently well provisioned kitchen, and served in a dining room that looked as if it had been just furnished directly from Pier 1 ... meals where Ted amused her with an endlessly soothing stream of pretty much unbelievable stories that she imagined he was making up on the moment to keep her entertained and happy ... it had worked ... or maybe it was the Estancia Pinot Grigio that had been the zing. Apparently this place on Sconticut Neck, where ever that was, functioned as a retreat of sorts that Ted visited when he felt the need. Daphne wasn’t so sure that this time the need hadn’t been more on her behalf then something of his. She was grateful for all he had done. Though Daphne had given Ted her real name when he had brought her here after the fire, she had told him nothing more about herself, about what happened at the club or anything before or since that time. Here and now was all that seemed to matter ... here and now, under Ted’s care, she was beginning to get used to the idea of having disappeared. She wondered what it would be like when Ted left for Maine tomorrow, and when the others returned ... Ted had said he expected them soon, as Nandra, and whoever else might be with him were never away for long.