LONDON, 1996

Yung Jiyong slumped into the nearest seat in the hotel lobby, drained from the sixteen-hour flight from Singapore, the train ride from Heathrow Airport, and trudging through the rain-soaked streets. His cousin Song Jihyo shivered stoically next to him, all because her mother, Sunmi, his imo—or “aunt” in Korean—said it was a sin to take a taxi nine blocks and forced everyone to walk all the way from Piccadilly Tube Station.

Anyone else happening upon the scene might have noticed an unusually composed eight-year-old boy and an ethereal wisp of a girl sitting quietly in a corner, but all John Ormsby saw from his desk overlooking the lobby were two little Asian children staining the damask settee with their sodden coats. And it only got worse from there. Three Asian women stood nearby, frantically blotting themselves dry with tissues, while a teenager slid wildly across the lobby, his sneakers leaving muddy tracks on the black-and-white checker board marble.

Ormsby rushed downstairs from the mezzanine, knowing he could more efficiently dispatch these foreigners than his front-desk clerks. “Good evening, I am the general manager. Can I help you?” he said slowly, over-enunciating every word.

“Yes, good evening, we have a reservation,” the woman replied in perfect English.

Ormsby peered at her in surprise. “What name is it under?”

“Charlotte Yung and family.”- Booked under Eunjung’s English name, of course.

Ormsby froze—he recognized the name, especially since the Yung party had booked the Lancaster Suite. But who could have imagined that “”Charlotte Yung” would turn out to be Korean, and how on earth did she end up here? The Dorchester or the Ritz might let this kind in, but this was the Calthorpe, owned by the Calthorpe-Cavendish-Gores since the reign of George IV and run for all intents and purposes like a private club for the sort of families that appeared in Debrett’s or the Almanach de Gotha. Ormsby considered the bedraggled women and the dripping children. The Dowager Marchioness of Uckfield was staying through “the weekend, and he could scarcely imagine what she would make of these folk appearing at breakfast tomorrow. He made a swift decision. “I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t seem to find a booking under that name.”

“Are you sure?” Eunjung (Or in this case, Charlotte) asked in surprise.

“Quite sure.” Ormsby grinned tightly.

Yung Sunmi joined her sister-in-law at the front desk. “Is there a problem?” she asked impatiently, eager to get to the room to dry her hair.

“omo*, they can’t find our reservation,” Eunjung sighed.

“How come? Maybe you booked it under another name?” Sunmi inquired.

“No, lah. Why would I do that? It was always booked under my English name,” Eunjung replied irritatedly. Why did Sunmi always assume she was incompetent? She turned back to the manager. “Sir, can you please check again? I reconfirmed our reservation just two days ago. We’re supposed to be in your largest suite.”

“Yes, I know you booked the Lancaster Suite, but I can’t find your name anywhere,” Ormsby insisted.

“Excuse me, but if you know we booked the Lancaster Suite, why don’t we have the room?” Sunmi asked, confused.

Bloody hell. Ormsby cursed at his own slip-up. ” “No, no, you misunderstood. What I meant was that you might think you booked the Lancaster Suite, but I certainly can’t find any record of it.” He turned away for a moment, pretending to rummage through some other paperwork.

Felicity leaned over the polished oak counter and pulled the leather-bound reservations book toward her, flipping through pages. “Look! It says right here ‘Mrs. Charlotte Yung—Lancaster Su