“Lizzie Livermore?” My grandmother stares at me, her lips slightly pursed, one hand raised, turning the pearls in her necklace. “I’m not quite sure I approve of this new friendship, Scarlett. A perfectly pleasant girl, but a follower, not a leader. And she has neither brains nor breeding.”

“It’s not really a friendship, Grand—Lady Wakefield,” I correct myself.

Mistake! Beep beep! Mistake! My grandmother jumps right on that one.

“Not really a friendship? Then why, after staying with her last Saturday night, are you proposing to spend part of your half-term break with her as well?” she inquires, her blue eyes narrowing.

I recoup quickly.

“She’s very nice to me, and I miss London,” I say convincingly. “But mainly”—I look away here, as if it’s hard for me to say the next part—“mainly it’s because I can tell Aunt Gwen doesn’t want me around too much. I really don’t think she’d like me kicking round the house for a whole week with no school to go to. She’s used to having it to herself. I thought it would be easier on her if I went away for part of the time.”

I’ve been saying this mostly to a portrait of a Wakefield ancestor in a crinoline, her hair in unflattering ringlets, holding a parasol and a small dog and looking rather uncomfortable, which hangs on the far wall of my grandmother’s office. It’s always weird looking at the family portraits, because they’re either the spitting image of my grandmother or of me. Which I expect means I resemble her more than I realize.

Ooh, that’s a scary thought. I glance back at my grandmother, picturing her at my age, with my dark curls. It’s impossible, though. I can’t imagine her a day younger than she is now. And are my eyes really that bright shade of turquoise? I don’t think so. Mine are paler, more aquamarine. And my skin isn’t as pale as hers—Grandma is as white as a piece of copy paper. She definitely has more striking coloring than I do.

To my surprise, I see that her expression has actually softened. She’s stopped turning her pearls as well, which is always a good sign.

“I see,” she says, slowly, as if she’s saying it more to herself than to me.

“Taylor McGovern is staying here this half-term ’cause—because—her parents are still on their archaeological site and she can’t go and visit them. So when Lizzie invited me, I thought—”

My grandmother holds up a pale, wrinkly hand.

“There’s no need to explain further, Scarlett,” she says. “You may go to stay with Lizzie.”

“Thank you, Gr—Lady Wakefield!” I exclaim enthusiastically.

Then I wonder if I’ve sounded too keen at the prospect of spending my short holiday with Lizzie. But my grandmother isn’t suspicious: she looks rather sad, actually.

“Scarlett?” she adds as I’m on my way out of her office.

Holding the door, I look back. Seated behind her huge mahogany desk, my grandmother should look tiny by comparison. It’s the desk that used to belong to the Wakefield men, made in the Victorian era, with a green leather studded top, very faded now. Desks for ladies of that period are tiny little things, with fold-down tops and a series of pretty little pigeonholes for party invitations and dressmakers’ bills. I know, because Grandmother has one of them, too.

But, sitting behind this monster of a desk, in a very modern swivel chair, Grandmother looks like the queen of all she surveys. Her white hair’s shining, her pale blue cardigan with pearl buttons is neatly done up over a pristine white blouse. She’s a modern version of all the Wakefields in the portraits. The office is paneled in mahogany and painted dark red where there isn’t paneling: it’s supposed to be imposing, so parents and badly behaved girls summoned before the headmistress are daunted as soon as they walk in. But that’s just an extra. My grandmother doesn’t need this setting to be imposing. She can manage that all on her own.

“Yes?” I say, almost expecting some words of consolation at my having to live with Aunt Gwen.

“Just make sure you don’t become too influenced by Lizzie Livermore,” she says firmly, adjusting some papers on the desk. “She’s a very silly, flighty girl without a thought in her head, and she’s much too concerned with fashion and frivolity. And her father’s the height of nouveau riche. Not a connection I want for my only granddaughter.”

“No, Lady Wakefield,” I say dutifully, closing the door.

I can’t help grinning to myself. My grandmother really is as tough as old boots. Trust her to get in a comment like that at the end, just when I thought she might be letting down her guard a bit.

I just hope I’ve inherited half her backbone.

Lucky it went so well with my grandmother. Because it went as badly as it could possibly have gone with Taylor. She’s furious when I tell her about Mrs. McAndrew’s invitation. I’ve seen Taylor angry before, but not like this. A few weeks ago, she didn’t really know me, and it wasn’t personal. Now, it is.

“How could you not tell me you were writing to her?!” she yelled at me. “We’re supposed to be partners. We’re in this together!”

“Try to understand, Taylor. I just need to do this on my own for a while,” I explain.

Taylor’s fists are resting on her hips, her legs planted just as firmly a couple of feet apart. All of her muscles seem to be bulging, and Taylor has a lot of muscles. She’s frowning so much her thick dark eyebrows are almost joining up. Anger has made her look like a cartoon version of herself.

“I’m not saying you should have sat down with me to write the letter,” she continues, “but you could at least have told me you were sending it! Or that you found out that Callum is Dan’s brother. Jesus!”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Look, I wasn’t deliberately cutting you out or anything like that. After I read the obituary, I just had an idea to write to her and I sat down and did it and posted it off straight away, that’s all  .  .  .”

“You still could have told me,” she insists.

I feel really guilty. Taylor has helped me out so much in trying to find out who killed Dan and put herself on the line for me many times. She even took the risk of going through Plum’s bag, when if anyone had caught her, she could have been arrested. For a moment, I wonder if shutting her out was absolutely necessary.

“I thought we were a team,” she’s saying furiously. “I thought you felt the same way.”

I look at her helplessly.

“I don’t know if I can always be a team on this,” I blurt out. “You didn’t even know Dan, Taylor. You weren’t there when he died. But I was. I’m the one he was kissing—I’m the one everyone thought had something to do with killing him. This is really personal to me and I need some space to deal with it on my own.” I pause for breath, shocked by what I’m saying. I’ve never realized this before, not so clearly, but now it’s put into words I realize how true it is. I’m begging her to understand.

“You could at least have asked if I could come up to Scotland with you,” Taylor complains.

“I couldn’t do that!” I exclaim. “It’s just going to be me and the family there—I’d have felt ridiculous asking if I could bring a friend.”

“Whatever,” she says coldly. “Have a great time in Scotland solving your mystery.” She puts a nasty spin on the your, and I can’t blame her. “Don’t bother to send a postcard,” she adds sarcastically.

Then Taylor McGovern, my only true friend, turns and stomps away.