“She’s taking years off my life,” says Patrick proudly.
“Regardless,” says Phoebe, “I scheduled this appointment weeks ago. I need to talk to Mr. Vanders.”
“There’s nothing we can do,” says Mrs. Vanders. “Someone needs to look for that sculpture. If we can’t put it back together, our contact isn’t going to help us move the children.”
“Well, you’ve made an inconvenient choice as to who’s the gardener.”
“Mr. Vanders is no happier about it than you are,” says Mrs. Vanders. “But he’s trying to approach the digging as a meditative activity. He would not otherwise have time to meditate on a day like today. Meditation improves his sessions.”
“Well, that’s no use to me if my sessions are canceled, is it?” says Phoebe.
“You could go dig with him.”
Phoebe makes a scoffing noise. “Sure. No one would think it was out of character with my snob persona if I dropped to my knees in the garden next to the butler and started digging. Why isn’t Patrick digging? Are you too pretty to dig, Patrick?”
“Patrick also has his hands full at the moment,” says Mrs. Vanders. “It’s the day before a gala, Phoebe. I appreciate your needs, but I’m certain you appreciate ours as well. Everyone at Espions Sans Frontières is making sacrifices. Cook has barely had time to touch his saxophone and my yoga has most certainly suffered.”
Then Mrs. Vanders shifts to one side and Phoebe and Jane are looking straight into each other’s faces.
Phoebe smiles, with a sincerity Jane’s never seen in her face before. “You keep popping up,” she says, “don’t you. You have a talent for sneaking.”
Patrick and Mrs. Vanders spin around. Their faces are unsurprised, unreadable.
“I’m not sneaking,” Jane says. “I wanted some food. So I came to the kitchen.”
Patrick glances at Mrs. Vanders, then walks toward Jane, past her, almost brushing against her. “You’ve got an awfully quiet tread,” he says, “for someone your size, and wearing those boots.”
“My aunt Magnolia taught me not to push myself onto any environment,” Jane says, earning a small chuckle from Phoebe.
“Tell me when Mr. Vanders is free, please, I beg you,” Phoebe says to Mrs. Vanders, then turns and exits through the kitchen’s main door. Patrick has also made his exit, through the back door.
Jane is alone with Mrs. Vanders. She lifts her chin and holds the housekeeper’s steely eyes. There’s no more point in pretending.
“I know Grace Panzavecchia is in this house,” says Jane. “I know she took the Brancusi sculpture. I know Phoebe and Philip Okada aren’t who they’re pretending to be, and neither are you.”
Mrs. Vanders stares at Jane, with a silence so obstinate that it’s somehow aggressive. “Tell me,” she says, “how do you feel about it?”
“What does it matter how I feel?” cries Jane. “Is this a therapy session or something?”
Mrs. Vanders smiles, grimly. “It could be, if you wanted it. Mr. Vanders is a licensed psychologist, specializing in these things.”
“Specializing in what things? People who lie?”
“Specializing in the needs of political agents and government operatives,” says Mrs. Vanders.
“Oh, come on,” Jane spits out, truly at the end of her patience. “You’re all playacting some silly game.”
“Well, playacting is part of the job, it’s true,” says Mrs. Vanders with another grim smile. “Your aunt Magnolia was quite good at it.”
“Aunt Magnolia didn’t playact,” says Jane automatically.
“Your aunt is dead,” says Mrs. Vanders. “It’s time you knew who she really was. I’ve meant to get in touch with you for months now, but I guess I’ve had too much on my plate. Magnolia would be furious at the delay, rest her soul.”
Jane has this strange feeling, as if she’s in a car, careening in slow motion toward a tree. “Stop it.”
“The servants of Tu Reviens are a secret espionage-advocacy group,” says Mrs. Vanders. “We provide confidential, nonpartisan services for agents, operatives, and assets of all political loyalties, mostly during this house’s seasonal galas. We’re called Espions Sans Frontières, Spies Without Borders. Your aunt Magnolia—”
“Stop it!” says Jane.
“Your aunt Magnolia was an operative for the American government.”
“She wasn’t,” says Jane. “She was an underwater photographer. She was not a spy!”
“She did underwater photography too,” says Mrs. Vanders. “It was the cover for her work as an operative. In our circles, spy is, in fact, a rather derogatory term.”
“Oh, come on! This is preposterous!”
“It may be preposterous,” says Mrs. Vanders, “but it’s entirely true. It’s why I knew Magnolia. ESF helped her from time to time. I’d like to know how you feel about it, because we’re always recruiting.”
Behind Jane, a door opens and Ivy steps in, tall and easy in her ratty blue sweater. At the sight of Jane, she stops, a stricken look coming to her face. “Janie?”
In Ivy’s eyes, Jane sees concern, misery, guilt. She sees the truth. Her heart plummets. This is real.
“What is it, Ivy-bean?” says Mrs. Vanders harshly. “You can go ahead and say it in front of Jane.”
Ivy clears her throat. “I’ve looked into that man who’s calling himself Ji-hoon,” she says. “I’m not sure, but Phoebe could be right.”
“Very well,” says Mrs. Vanders. “Until we know for certain, we can’t do anything extreme, but we can make damn sure he gets nowhere near the children. Please ask Phoebe to come see me at her earliest convenience.”
“You can’t really ask more of Phoebe, can you?” says Ivy. “She’s a British operative. She doesn’t work for ESF.”
“The Brits benefit if we get the children away,” says Mrs. Vanders. “Everyone benefits, and Phoebe knows that. She’ll do what I ask.”
“All right,” says Ivy, then hesitates, looking at Jane.
“Ivy,” says Mrs. Vanders, not without a sudden, surprising touch of tenderness. “Go. Ji-hoon and Grace are both in the house; we can’t take risks.”
Ivy goes.
“You needed food?”
Jane casts about for a grip on what Mrs. Vanders is saying. “What?”
“Come,” says Mrs. Vanders. “I’ll help you collect some things.”
“Okay,” Jane says automatically, not caring. As she follows the housekeeper into the pantry, a staticky noise emerges from one of the shelves.
“Sweetie?” says the deep voice of Mr. Vanders.
Mrs. Vanders reaches for a walkie-talkie sitting atop a fruit basket. “Go ahead.”
“I found the fish,” says her husband’s voice. “I’ll bring it up to your studio. It badly needs cleaning.”
Mrs. Vanders releases a breath of air. “Thank heaven for small blessings.”
“Are you still worried the Vermeer’s been forged?” says Mr. Vanders’s voice.
“Ravi hasn’t noticed anything wrong with it. We talked for ten minutes standing right in front of it.”
“Have you had it out of the frame?”
“Not yet,” says Mrs. Vanders. “I’ll do it after we’ve moved the children. If it has been forged, it’s nothing to do with the children or any of this, so I simply can’t spare it a moment’s attention right now.”
“Don’t blame yourself for putting it on the back burner,” says Mr. Vanders.
“I do blame myself,” says Mrs. Vanders. “If the Vermeer has been forged, it’s a calamity. You know how seriously I take my responsibilities to the family. Ravi’s already so upset about the Brancusi.”
“He’ll have his Brancusi back in a week’s time, none the wiser,” says Mr. Vanders. “And you’ll be able to give the Vermeer your fullest attention after the children are safe. Which will be soon, now that we have the Brancusi in hand. The gala is tomorrow. This is almost over.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” says Mrs. Vanders. “I suppose it always gets like this before the galas.”
“There is always something,” says Mr. Vanders with a chuckle, then a sneeze. Then the static cuts out. Mrs. Vanders shoves the walkie-talkie back onto the fruit bowl and reaches for a cutting board.
“Which cheese do you prefer,” she says, “muenster or gruyere?”
“What?” says Jane. “Cheese?”