Until now I had assumed that these were vestiges of Philip's studies at Eton and Cambridge. I flipped through several of them, not knowing what I wanted to find. Frustrated with my complete lack of direction, I picked up a guide to the British Museum. The book fell open to a page that held a carefully folded note written in a hand I did not recognize. "Your present course of action has placed you in grave danger." The page it marked described a vase on which there was a painting of the great hero Achilles killing the queen of the Amazons. Grave danger indeed.

I examined the note closely. The paper was heavy, the type that an artist might use in his sketchbook, but it bore no indication of the identity of either sender or recipient. Very odd. I sighed, unsure of what to do. After rereading it I placed it in Philip's desk, where I sat, suddenly overcome by a feeling of ominous unease. I rang for tea, hoping the genial beverage (without my mother's too-liberal use of sugar) would soothe my nerves. It was some time before I was able to turn my attention back to the book from which the note had fallen, but eventually I found myself engrossed in its descriptions of the museum's magnificent artifacts. Suddenly, on a whim, I summoned my carriage. I wanted to see them myself.

Naturally I had not mentioned Greece or the villa to my parents, and I smiled as I approached Great Russell Street, Wondering what my mother would think if I were to set up house in Santorini for the rest of my years. How long would I have to wear half mourning there? I fluffed my black striped skirts and entered the museum, immediately asking if someone could show me the Greek antiquities. A wealthy widow quickly learns that great institutions long for her money; knowing this, I anticipated a thorough and enjoyable tour.