The Invitation Nobody Sent

Peach had put the envelope under a bowl of keys, which was how Banzo knew it mattered. Ordinary invitations went on the table. Difficult invitations acquired furniture.

“No sender?” he asked.

“Gold edge. Excellent paper. Absolutely no manners.” Peach slid it toward him. “The Exchange. Tomorrow evening.”

Banzo turned the card over. Beneath the time was a drawing of a round table with three chairs. One chair was marked with a tiny notch.

“I thought nobody used that room anymore.”

“Then you'll have plenty of space.”

By the following evening, Banzo had decided this was an opportunity. He wore purple, asked Berry to hold the cameras and arrived at the Exchange with a speech he had not quite finished believing.

The old pavilion stood above the harbour, its glass catching the last gold of the sky. Beyond the east windows, a locked brass gate blocked the footbridge. Banzo remembered his father calling that gate a precaution. Brocko's father had called it a boundary. Burglar's father had apparently used words unsuitable for a plaque.

Brocko was already inside. He held an invitation with two small notches. “Tell me you haven't bought the place.”

“I haven't bought the place.”

“Good.”

“I did think about better lighting.”

The doors opened again. Burglar stepped in, glanced at the empty room and removed one imaginary speck from his shearling collar.

“If this is a surprise party,” he said, “the surprise is a disappointing number of admirers.”

He placed his invitation on the table. Three notches.

Banzo stopped smiling quite so widely. Brocko looked from one card to the next.

“I didn't send those,” Banzo said.

“Neither did I,” said Brocko.

Burglar took his time answering. “If I had arranged this, there would be refreshments.”

Peach arrived with a tray from the reception room. “A problem we can solve.”

Three chairs stood around the old walnut table. Their undersides carried the same little notches as the cards. Brocko crouched, found the first mark and frowned. As he shifted the chair, a slim brass drawer became visible beneath the table edge.

It was not locked. Inside lay a folded copy of an agreement, kept flat beneath an old glass paperweight. A line near the bottom had been underlined so firmly that the pen had almost cut through.

Banzo read it aloud. “No founding family may claim sole possession of the Exchange or deny the others access to its records.”

Burglar reached for the page. Brocko kept one finger on the corner.

“Read the next line,” Peach said.

“Any dispute concerning closure shall be considered with Annex C.”

Banzo turned the sheet. There was no Annex C.

Outside, the closed bridge disappeared into violet mist. For years, each family had described what the others had taken. Here, in their fathers' own agreement, was something none of them had been allowed to own alone.

Burglar pulled out a chair.

“Fine,” he said. “But next time, better refreshments.”