“But how do you know what I wanted?”

“The wish I made is for your own good,” Daisy informed her.

Annabelle groaned theatrically. “I hate things that are for my own good.”

A good-natured squabble followed, in which each girl made suggestions as to what would be best for the other, until finally Lillian commanded them to stop, as they were interfering with her concentration. They fell silent just long enough to allow Lillian and Evie to make their wishes, then they made their way across the meadow and through the forest. Soon they reached a lovely dry meadow, grassy and sun-drenched, with shade extending from a grove of oak at one side. The air was balmy and rarefied, and so fresh that Annabelle sighed blissfully. “This air has no substance to it,” she said in mock-complaint. “No coal smoke or street dust whatsoever. Much too thin for a Londoner. I can’t even feel it in my lungs.”

“It’s not that thin,” Lillian replied. “Every now and then the breeze carries a distinct hint of eau de sheep.”

“Really?” Annabelle sniffed experimentally. “I can’t smell a thing.”

“That’s because you don’t have a nose,” Lillian replied.

“I beg your pardon?” Annabelle asked with a quizzical grin.

“Oh, you have a regular sort of nose,” Lillian explained, “but I have a nose. I’m unusually sensitive to smell. Give me any perfume, and I can separate it into all its parts. Rather like listening to a musical chord and divining all its notes. Before we left New York, I even helped to develop a formula for scented soap, for my father’s factory.”

“Could you create a perfume, do you think?” Annabelle asked in fascination.

“I daresay I could create an excellent perfume,” Lillian said confidently. “However, anyone in the industry would disdain it, as the phrase ‘American perfume’ is considered to be an oxymoron—and I’m a woman, besides, which throws the caliber of my nose very much into question.”

“You mean, men have better noses than women?”

“They certainly think so,” Lillian said darkly, and whipped a picnic blanket out of her basket with a flourish. “Enough about men and their protuberances. Shall we sit in the sun for a little while?”

“We’ll get brown,” Daisy predicted, flopping onto a corner of the blanket with a pleasured sigh. “And then Mama will have conniptions.”

“What are conniptions?” Annabelle asked, entertained by the American word. She dropped to the space beside Daisy. “Do send for me if she has them— I’m curious to see what they look like.”

“Mama has them all the time,” Daisy assured her. “Never fear, you’ll be well acquainted with conniptions before we all leave Hampshire.”

“We shouldn’t eat before we play,” Lillian said, watching as Annabelle lifted the lid of a picnic basket.

“I’m hungry,” Annabelle said wistfully, peering inside the basket, which was filled with fruit, cheese, pate, thick cuts of bread, and several varieties of salad.

“You’re always hungry,” Daisy observed with a laugh. “For such a small person, you have a remarkable appetite.”

“I, small?” Annabelle countered. “If you are one fraction of an inch above five feet tall, I’ll eat that picnic basket.”

“You’d better start chewing, then,” Daisy said. “I’m five feet and one inch, thank you.”

“Annabelle, I wouldn’t gnaw on that wicker handle quite yet, if I were you,” Lillian interceded with a slow smile. “Daisy stands on her toes whenever she’s measured. The poor dressmaker has had to recut the hems of nearly a dozen dresses, thanks to my sister’s unreasonable denial of the fact that she is short.”

“I’m not short,” Daisy muttered. “Short women are never mysterious, or elegant, or pursued by handsome men. And they’re always treated like children. I refuse to be short.”

“You’re not mysterious or elegant,” Evie conceded. “But you’re very pr-pretty.”

“And you’re a dear,” Daisy replied, levering upward to reach into the picnic basket. “Come, let’s feed poor Annabelle—I can hear her stomach growling.”

They delved into the repast enthusiastically. Afterward, they reclined lazily on the blanket and cloud-watched, and talked about everything and nothing. When their chatter died to a contented lull, a small red squirrel ventured out of the oak grove and turned to the side, watching them with one bright black eye.

“An intruder,” Annabelle observed, with a delicate yawn.

Evie rolled to her stomach and tossed a bread crust in the squirrel’s direction. He froze and stared at the tantalizing offering, but was too timid to advance. Evie tilted her head, her hair glittering in the sun as if it had been overlaid with a net of rubies. “Poor little thing,” she said softly, casting another crust at the timid squirrel. This one landed a few inches closer, and his tail twitched eagerly. “Be brave,” Evie coaxed. “Go on and take it.” Smiling tolerantly, she tossed another crust, which landed a scant few inches from him. “Oh, Mr. Squirrel,” Evie reproved. “You’re a dreadful coward. Can’t you see that no one’s going to harm you?”

In a sudden burst of initiative, the squirrel seized the tidbit and scampered off with his tail quivering. Looking up with a triumphant smile, Evie saw the other wallflowers staring at her in drop-jawed silence. “Wh-what is it?” she asked, puzzled.