...I do as instructed. Without even being granted a moment to change into more appropriate evening attire, Valenta and I are hurried out the door. We exchange a smile, sharing the secret that the evening's arrangements are for her parents' and not for our benefit.

The Cotswolds are a completely different world from the one that greeted me at my arrival. The sun, ever low on the horizon, gilds the world with sidelight, revealing mysteries upon cottage stone and tree trunk that otherwise sleep in the cover of shadow, during the day. At this late hour, the sun paints Valenta in twilight rose, convincing me that the next chapter of my dusty E.F. Gwynn text can wait.

Taking her arm in mind, I lead her to the carriage. "Drakesheath," I tell the driver, sitting alongside my mentor's daughter. The carriage rumbles along as I slyly thumb through my pocketbook, assessing my means. "If we are to dine out this evening, we had best be dressed for it."

"Nonsense," Valenta protests. "This isn't London, Charlie. Nobody will give us a second glance."

"Your mother and father deserve an evening all to themselves, and supper is a good two hours away yet. Let's be Londoners just for tonight. We'll pay a visit to the milliner and the haberdasher first. Then we'll be spruced up for dinner. It is Christmastime, after all."