At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. She could not risk going in the door, lest she run into Larry or Cathy drinking a nocturnal glass of milk or Mike raiding the refrigerator for snacks. “Lady Ferringhall, sir. ‘Has this capitaine of yours not yet rid us of this Emile? What can he find to say to him?’ ‘Don’t be impatient,’ Gerald said, rising too and coming to draw her away from the door. Home!— which I never hoped to see again. She spent many days in the castle alone as he busied himself with his alchemy, or traveled to Florence to visit his remaining political connections.
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