Terrence park was a parkland and an adjoining wilderness area at the southern edge of the city. A good place to get lost in, especially with the police looking for you.

But instead of getting lost in it, we got soaked. It started with individual, fat drops, doing their best to smite us on the spot. When we weren't smitten, the drops got smaller, but more numerous, giving up on the smiting and concentrating on relentless drenching.

We ran towards a more civilized section of the park and found a restaurant. A large, wooden building with a slate roof. It stood stolid and unmovable in the pelting downpour and the waning light of the day.

The entrance hall was wood-paneled, wood-floored, and wood-raftered. Devices our forebears had used for working the land were arranged along the walls in aesthetically pleasing, yet nonsensical combinations. All of it was polished to shine.

"Looks expensive," I whispered.

"Looks liked they've pillaged an old farmhouse," Theresa answered.

I giggled. The abundance of adrenaline that had flooded my body earlier had ebbed away, leaving me in a dreamy, cottony aftermath of exhaustion.

We continued down a hallway and arrived at the actual restaurant. The tables were set with white linen, sparkling glasses, gleaming silverware, and burgundy-red napkins. There was no more than a handful of guests.

The waiter manning the please-wait-to-be-seated station wore a leather jacket over a white shirt and a leather tie, and once he saw the two waterlogged creatures we were, he wore a frown, on top of that.

"Do you have a reservation?"

I shook my head. "No, but we have a meteorological emergency."

"She means," Theresa added, "we're totally soaked, and you just can't turn us away. We've nowhere else to go." She smiled up at him.

Nowhere else to go—that rang true.

"Very well... let's see." He consulted the bible-sized volume in front of him, frowned and tutting in the power his station gave him, and finally nodded. "Yes, I've got a table for you."

He guided us to our table. The man wore jeans. The restaurant looked like one of those high-strung, fake-rural places where the waiters acted like cowboys but charged like attorneys.

The table was at one of the windows. Outside, darkness had gained a firmer hold on the wet landscape. The waiter brought us the menu and lit a candle between us.

The prices of the fare were as expected—this place wasn't cheap.

Theresa studied the menu, twirling a wet, dark strand of her hair around a finger. She looked up, the blue of eyes catching a gleam of gold in the candle light, and she smiled. "I'll pay."

Once again. This was getting repetitive, but I lacked the money to invite her back. I gave in. "Thanks."

We ordered food, and Theresa chose a wine for us.

The waiter returned with our bottle and filled our glasses. We toasted. The fragrance of the dark liquid was ripe and earthy, and it was smooth as it passed my throat, leaving a warmth on my tongue—the warmth of a summer that had nutured these grapes years ago.

When our food arrived, the scent of garlic and thyme reminded me of how hungry I was. She must have been starving, too, as we both sat for some minutes in voracious silence.

Then she raised her glass once more. "Anne Anderson, thanks for all your help." Her face was solemn, and the moisture on her hair gleamed in the light of the candle.

"It's been a pleasure, Theresa Thorne," I replied, toasting and taking a sip.

Theresa Thorne, Thomas Thorne, Thierry Thorne... The wine's spirit helped me to recognize a pattern. "Why's it that all members of your family have the same initials, Th Th?"

She grinned. "It's a thing in the Thorne family. I guess it dates back over generations. My grandfather's name was Theobald... But you're a double-initialler too. An An."

"True." I nodded. She had a point. "It isn't that rare, I guess."

"Prob'ly," Theresa said. She had emptied her glass and reached for the bottle to give it a refill, the movement making the candle's flame flicker. In the unsteady light, with her aquiline nose casting a fleeting shadow over her fine features, she looked mysterious, vulnerable, sensual.

I felt an urge to reach for her hands. Alcohol tended to make me emotional.

Taking a breath to clear my head, I pushed my glass over to hers, it was almost empty, too. "But being a Th Th does have its perks." I made the Th Th sound like a steam engine.

"People say that, An An." She grinned, then grew serious. "But... There are obligations... and expectations. Dad had always wanted me to join the firm, but I hated the thought of being cooped up there, on the executive floor, with all these duties and responsibilities. Thierry was the one who loved it... but I think dad had doubts about him... doubted that he has what it takes."

I huffed. "You'd make a better CEO than he would."

She chuckled. "You sound like our ma. She used to say that, too, right into Thierry's face. Think of that."

"That's tough on him."

"She wasn't a gentle character. She was... difficult. He hated her, and me, and dad. He still does, I guess."

"Still, your ma was probably right. You'd be a good boss."

"I don't think so." She shook her head. "I like being myself, not something other people expect me to be... or want me to be. Back when I was still working at TCorp, I was head of Competitive Studies." She used her fingers to air-quote the title and snorted. "A one-woman department. It basically meant browsing our competitors' websites and telling my dad about it. A non-job, just something to keep me busy and on the payroll. And I sucked at it. Still, everyone treated me like royalty, fawned over me, digging out their smooth smiles, their little bows, their best manners... As if I were the greatest thing that ever happened to them. It sucked. It wasn't me. So I stopped."

"You're still a queen at TCorp, even if you're not an employee anymore," I said. "Actually, you could walk right into headquarters and go anywhere..."

She shrugged.

"For example..." I continued, trying to collect my addled thoughts into a coherent stream of words, "you could walk into the accounting department and get anything you want from them, just by asking nicely."

She tugged her lips. "I guess I could."

"For example, they'd give you the list of expenses without questions."

"So you're suggesting..."

"Why not? Just walk in, get the list, and leave," I said. "Well... maybe someone like Bob Burleigh might be tempted to call Top Floor about it."

"Bob Burleigh?"

"My boss... ex-boss."

"Right... I remember the guy."

"In fact," I said, "it would be best to avoid Bob. We could just go to the computer of someone who's authorized to access the accounts, find the expenses, print the stuff, and walk out with the documents we need."

"So, I wouldn't have to go into TCorp alone?"

"Nope, you'd be tagging me along. As your assistant."

She giggled. "That sounds great."

I grinned, ignoring a sense of hot unease spreading from my chest into my bowels. "So we have a plan. And, by the way... You said that everyone at TCorp sees you as a Thorne. When I see you now, though, I don't see a Thorne... I see a Theresa, and I like her."

"Thanks." She reached for my hand on the table and squeezed it.

"Can I get you some dessert?" A male voice at our table—our waiter.

Theresa let go of me.

"Thanks, but I'm good," I said.

"I'm fine, too," Theresa added.

The man strolled off. I stared at his jeans-clad behind—muscles stretching blue fabric.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" Theresa's question jerked me back to reality.

I shook my head. "Naw. I had a boyfriend... until I found out he was married. I ended it. You?"

"No." She shook her head and looked through the window. The water drops on the panes refracted the light of a row of lamps outside.

She didn't elaborate. I didn't push.

She turned her face back to look at me, serious. "Where do we spend the night? The police are looking for me, Ed said... and now for you too, probably, I don't think we should go to a hotel where we have to show an ID or use a credit card for deposit. I guess that good Detective Shawn Shortbitten would love to get hold of me."

I remembered the Brit detective she had talked about and saw a thin, gangly man with a long nose to talk through. The picture made me giggle.

"What's the matter?"

"Just had a vision of Detective Shortbitten making British sounds through his long nose, sorry."

She grinned. "That sounds like him... anyway, we need a place where his nose won't make an appearance."

"Yes." I had given this question some thought already. I first had considered asking my mother for asylum, but the police might check out her apartment. There was another option, though.

"I know a place..." I dug a key from my pocket and held it up. "And not just any place... It's a royal place."