Page 64 of Kings of Sherwood

Tuck peers closer. “Says they were married a month later.”

“Cute.”

“And then welcomed their son...” He blinks. “Six months after that.”

I snort. “Let me guess—one of those ten-pound preemies?”

Tuck laughs. “I mean, good for her, I guess. Getting some action but still managing to save face? That’s a balancing act.”

“I wonder how she found the time,” I say, my eyes drifting to a small datebook with a pearlescent cover, its pages open to that same year, the social season, where, in neat fountain-pen Palmer-method handwriting, Cecily had written down various social obligations. Lessons. Garden parties. Dinner parties. Tea parties. Parties, parties, parties.

“No kidding,” Tuck says, following where I’m looking. “Damn, she tracked everything.”

He points to a calendar square:

Two eggs, poached.

One half grapefruit.

Small scoop cottage cheese.

“I guess that’s what things were like in the pre-smartphone days,” he says. “Had to write it all out.”

“Yeah.” But now that I’m looking closer, there’s all kinds of notes: on the calendar days, in the margins, crammed into the tinyNOTESsection:

Salt, lavender (for bath)

Silver ring—must be left hand

Sunset: 7:33, 7:34, 7:36, 7:37 (raining), 7:38

Music at dinner. String instruments, NO vinyl/tapes

Pale blue chiffon: save for Weds. IF forsythia in bloom

Avoid: Coffee. Red meat. Side entrance to house (mushroom ring). Mirrors, iron.

“I dunno,” I say. “It’s still...weird.”

“Yeah,” Tuck agrees, frowning. “Look, she was even tracking the lunar cycles, too.”

He points, and I squint at the datebook. There’s something about it. Something not exactly right that I can’t put my finger on.

Red dots in the corner of six days in a row. Then, two weeks later, black X’s in the corners of two.

Suddenly it clicks.

“Oh no,” I say. “No. She was—”

I blink, look around, just to make sure no one’s listening—and catch a glimpse of the docent just ducking out of sight from the doorway, where she was obviously eavesdropping.

“That’s embarrassing,” I mutter, looking back at the datebook.

“What?” Tuck looks at the book, then at me, clueless.

I swallow. “Well, she was...tracking her period,” I say, not sure how else to put it. “I mean, that’s obviously what those are.” I point to the dots. “And now it’s here. On display.”

“Oh.” Tuck bites back a smile. “That is kind of awkward.”

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