They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. E. I had no curiosity of that kind. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. What sort of proof? There are no papers at Remenham House. They confronted each other, barely feet apart, neither apparently any longer aware of anyone else in the room. “What you have done. ’ ‘Then do it,’ Melusine said with impatience.
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