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Living by a volcano was a very bad idea.

Far worse than living by the Marsdens, or by a garden water feature filled with nocturnally singing frogs—although Georgie wouldn’t have said so during the wee hours of Saturday morning as sleepless night transitioned into Bloody hell, I’m late to meet the carriage.

But after the first stage of the journey with Sir Graham, they had a new appreciation for the particular horrors meted out by mountains of flame.

Very, very bad things had happened to the residents of Pompeii and Herculaneum on the twenty-fourth of August in the year seventy-nine anno Domini.

Death by incineration. Death by encasement in choking ash.

Death by battery of burning pumice stones.

At least one chap’s brain had turned to glass in the heat.

Georgie almost asked Sir Graham how he knew about the glass brain, but then they pictured him cracking a Pompeiian skull like a hard-boiled egg and decided against it.

They didn’t really want to hear an answer to that question.

“Marsden,” said Sir Graham, turning from Georgie at last. “I know you’re not asleep.”

“I am asleep.” Mr. Marsden sat across from Georgie, arms folded, eyes closed.

“I’m driving you to collect your Saxon knickknacks, the least you could do is pay me the courtesy of your attention.”

“That’s not the least ,” replied Mr. Marsden, eyes still closed. “This is the least.”

Georgie glanced at Elf, who was seated next to Mr. Marsden. She’d been staring fixedly out the window for miles.

“And they are not knickknacks,” added Mr. Marsden, without stirring. “Saxon antiquities have far more relevance to our heritage than whatever classical bric-a-brac you can lug back from the Continent.”

“One mustn’t neglect the Roman influence.” Sir Graham was a silver-haired gentleman with an impressive nose, and he looked down it, impressively, at Mr. Marsden, to no effect.

“This is an Anglo-Saxon nation,” said Mr. Marsden, eyes closed. “If we are to trace our forebears beyond Albion’s rocky shores, the path leads to the German forest, not the Roman forum.”

“See that line across the moor?” Sir Graham smiled and rapped the window. “That’s a Roman path right there.”

Mr. Marsden did not see, but Georgie leaned forward to look, and therefore, received the brunt of Sir Graham’s information, more than they could ever retain, about the movements of the Roman legions, and their construction techniques, and the masonry layers of their roadways.

At some point, they nodded off, and woke with a start in an empty carriage.

“Are we there?” they asked, stepping down into a courtyard where Elf, Mr. Marsden, and Sir Graham stood blinking in the sun.

It soon became clear that they were not there.

Sir Graham had decided to stop for refreshment.

He continued informing Georgie as he ate and drank—mostly drank—until a squabble with Mr. Marsden diverted his attention, and Georgie was able to slink out of the inn.

Elf climbed into the carriage shortly after them.

“Papa and Sir Graham won’t be a moment,” she said, taking her seat in the opposite corner. She had a wary look on her face, which made their indignation flare.

“I promised I’d behave,” they reminded her. “I’m not about to kiss you.”

“Shhh.” She shushed them with a scowl.

“I can’t even say kiss?”

“ Shhh. ” She seized one of the quilted silk sleeping cushions, obviously intending to whack them with it, but the cushion was bound to her seat with a ribbon, so the best she could do was wave it menacingly. The menace conjured by silk cushion waving was not much.

Even so, they relented. “Let’s change the subject, then. Why did Sir Graham agree to drive?” They glanced around the carriage, upholstered and lined with cloth of Vesuvian red. “He and your father seem to be at odds.”

She lowered the cushion. “That’s just how they are. They’re friends who dislike each other.” Her cheeks tinted pink with embarrassment, and they recalled her stricken expression that day at Marsden Hall when Agnes had shouted.

You don’t have any friends.

“Or is that a contradiction?” she asked. “They’re on intimate but disagreeable terms. They do each other favors to get the upper hand. What would you call that?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t call it friendship exactly.”

“Was it friendship, what you had with the Janes?”

They tipped their head, surprised. “The Janes? They’re married now, as I’m sure you know.”

Jane Slater. Jane Turner. Jane Ratcliff.

Jane Tetley. Well, Jane Tetley’s real name was Mary.

She was an honorary Jane. After Georgie’s first full year away from Twynham, they’d slackened as a correspondent, and by the third, they didn’t think to feel guilty.

Sometimes friendships waned naturally. Friends grew apart, nudged along by geography and the marital imperative.

They sighed. “I called on each of them. Admired the husbands, and the sprats. We don’t have much in common these days. But we were friends, yes.”

She considered. “It strikes me as similar.”

They laughed in shock. “My friendship with the Janes, and your father’s with Sir Graham? That’s ridiculous. There’s no similarity at all. No one was trying to get the upper hand.”

“You weren’t.” A line appeared between Elf’s brows. “Because you had it. But they all competed for your attention. You paid them so little attention, you didn’t notice.”

“I didn’t realize you paid attention to me .” They scrubbed a hand through their hair, discomfited.

Elf went pinker. “You make it hard not to. You’ve very…obvious.”

Georgie’s skin felt too tight. The Janes had been inseparable, and easy to excite, always ready for devilry and adventure—albeit of the modest sort available in a country neighborhood—responsive to Georgie’s whims and high jinks, trailing them to the pond, if midnight swimming were the thing, or to the gamekeeper’s hut, or Lord Fawcett’s hedge maze, or Mrs. Pattinson’s library.

Rather like a retinue.

“The Janes called themselves the Janes,” they pointed out, defensively. “I didn’t have a hand in it. The Janes were close. They’re still close, I believe, all of them.”

“Possibly closer, now that they’re not vying for favorite.” Elf sounded thoughtful, but Georgie flinched regardless.

“I may have been more careless than I understood at the time,” they said, “but I was never manipulative. Perhaps a bit too willing to be fawned over.” They remembered Rosalie’s unpleasant smile when they’d complained about their exile.

Grow up with enough wealth and beauty, and you’ll accept anything as your due, until something, or someone, or many someones, teaches you otherwise.

They cleared their throat. “I have things to regret. But I refuse the comparison.”

Elf surprised them again by nodding. “I’m not an expert on friends, by any means. I’ve made observations, but I lack direct experience. I’ve told myself that sisters are like Latin. And friends are like Italian and French. But I suspect it’s more complicated.”

“Erm. That’s quite complicated enough.” They scratched their brow. “You’ve lost me.”

“It’s an analogy. If you know sisters, you can figure out friends. Just as, if you know Latin, you can figure out French.”

She sounded young, suddenly, and earnest, and more than a little like Agnes.

They knew not to smile.

“I advocate for experience over analogy.” They spoke seriously. Their heart picked up speed as they added, with deliberate offhandedness, “Why don’t we try it?”

She didn’t blink. “Try what?”

“Being friends.”

The not blinking continued.

“Friends,” she repeated slowly. “Friends who dislike each other?”

“The other kind.”

The blinking began, rapid blinks. “That would require liking each other.”

Her intonation said it all.

Georgie’s chest cavity iced over. “And that’s impossible.

” It emerged as a flat statement rather than a question.

They tilted up their chin and studied the ceiling.

The Vesuvian red didn’t reverse the ice spreading through their limbs.

“Impossible for you,” they clarified to the ceiling. “Not for me.”

After a moment of silence, they cleared their throat.

“New subject,” they declared, because the rejection stung like a poison dart, and they wanted to move on as quickly as they could. Unfortunately, their mind was blank. They turned their gaze back on Elf. She was blinking normally, but emotions churned in her eyes, all maddeningly indecipherable.

The new subject arrived unbidden.

“What did your father mean,” they asked, “this is an Anglo-Saxon nation? The rot about heritage and forebears?”

“Oh.” Elf looked nonplussed. “Nothing. He only said that to annoy Sir Graham.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry it annoyed you too.”

They shrugged.

“Because of your mother?”

They shrugged again. “Because of my mother and the nation’s numerous other non-Anglo-Saxons.”

Elf leaned forward, eager to explain, or maybe justify. “The Angles and Saxons were two tribes among many. But of course, all sorts of peoples have been living in the British Isles, for millennia.”

“Of course,” Georgie echoed. “These other peoples just don’t matter as much. To the nation. Because only people who do matter get to define what the nation is.”

Elf clasped her hands. “Your mother mattered.”

“I said it’s not just about my mother.”

“Papa wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t hwat ?” Mr. Marsden loomed.

Elf mumbled something inaudible, scooting over to allow him room.

“You were talking about your excellent mother.” Sir Graham settled himself beside Georgie, wafting the odor of bergamot cologne and spirits. His eyes were glassy. “I had the pleasure of meeting her once. Not in Twynham—the grudge between your family and Marsden’s prevented any intercourse.”

Mr. Marsden grunted.

“I never saw such taste and elegance,” continued Sir Graham. “We met quite by happenstance. I was on an archaeological excursion. She was seeing the sights. We ended up dining together, by the sea.”