“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.” Mrs. Lilley tightened her grip on my hands and looked even more miserable than she’d looked before.

Darn it. I hated it when people felt sorry for me. “We’re coping. Thank you for your sympathy. My loss is nothing compared with yours.” This was getting deep and sticky, and I really wanted to change the subject.

Mrs. Lilley left off squeezing my hand and patted it before letting it go, as if it was too heavy for her to hold any longer. “You’re a nice girl, Mrs. Majesty.”

“Please,” I said, “call me Daisy. Everyone does.”

“Very well. Daisy.” For the first time since I’d entered the room, Mrs. Lilley appeared interested in something. “Is Daisy short for Desdemona?”

At least one person asked me that every time I did one of these things. I gave her my standard answer. “In a manner of speaking.” I wasn’t going to admit to this poor sad woman that I’d adopted the name when I was ten years old because I thought I was merely playing a silly game.

Algie Pinkerton beamed at me as if I were something wonderful when Mrs. Kincaid dragged me off. I didn’t feel wonderful. I felt terrible when I looked back and saw Mrs. Lilley standing there, looking small and lost and alone.

It was hard losing a husband and a cousin to war, as I knew full well; but it must be pure hell to lose a child. I couldn’t bear thinking about it. Not that I’d ever have children if things continued the way they were going, since poor Billy was unable to sire kids any longer. That was too unhappy a situation to contemplate at present, so I concentrated on comparing the sisters.